


We Shall Come Home

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Other, Transformation, Urban Fantasy, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:09:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 59,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Transformed beyond recognition, beyond comprehension, Peter and Neal are lost in the woods and desperately try to get home.  A tale of friendship, sacrifice, loss and ultimately, of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. WEDNESDAY MORNING

**Author's Note:**

> **PROLOGUE**
> 
>  _How it happened and why it happened are two questions that will never really be answered, no matter how many times they are asked._
> 
>  _The official story, the one for the files, is a complete fabrication. It has to be, because the real story is simply not fit for either the jacket of a highly respected FBI agent or the one kept on his extremely effective (and occasionally troublesome) CI/consultant._
> 
>  _Yet the fact is, it did happen and the story, as it is told to those who officially need to know (and have indicated a willingness to believe), is a combination of high comedy and little emotion. The real story, known by those who are bound to the tellers by ties of love and friendship (and it is those ties that saved everyone), is filled with fear and pain and sadness and near tragedy. This is that story._

THEY HAD BEEN ON THE ROAD FOR THE BETTER PART OF FOUR HOURS. Without any warning, Peter arrived at Neal’s apartment sometime shortly after dawn, just about rolled him out of bed and into the shower. He briefed him as they made their way out of Manhattan. This wasn’t a pleasure trip; they were going to interview a suspect. Constantine Velton was the alleged mastermind in a massive pump-and-dump stock scheme, and he hoped to catch the man off guard at his country home in a very rural part of northeastern Pennsylvania.

The trip was difficult for both of them. Neal had a little less than four months left on his probation/parole – whatever you wanted to call it. But he refused to tell Peter of his plans. The only thing he’d say was that he was working on something. Peter had wanted to keep pressing him, but El finally told him to back off. He’d hoped that maybe during this trip, he’d be able to get Neal to reveal some of what he had in mind. But thus far he’d had no luck. The drive was an exercise in frustration and around the time they passed through the Delaware Water Gap, Peter stopped asking and Neal descended into a strange sulk.

“Peter, I think we’re lost. This road looks like it goes nowhere and I don’t think we’re even on pavement anymore.”

About forty minutes earlier, they had turned off of Route 84 onto a state road that cut through the game lands to get to someplace called Sylvania Lake, and they hadn’t seen another car in the last twenty miles.

“We’re not lost, not according to the directions Diana printed out for me.”

Neal disagreed, but while he was inclined to whine a little, he didn’t want to bicker. “I don’t know why we couldn’t take the Taurus. It has a GPS and a navigation system.”

“We don’t take personal vehicles for official business. You know that,” Peter grumbled at Neal. They’d had this conversation too many times.

Neal did, apparently, because he didn’t have a snappy comeback. This was good, as Peter was getting more than a little fed up with Neal’s complaints. “And for your information, all Federal vehicles have GPS trackers, just like your anklet.”

Neal just sighed the sigh of one oppressed, which was almost as irritating as the whining.

“Look, we’re in Pike County already.” Peter hoped that would shut Neal up for a few minutes, at least.

Neal was blessedly silent for about ninety seconds, but as he opened his mouth to utter the next fatal words, Peter cut him off.

“If you ask me one more time how long it will take until we get there, I’m going to…”

“What? What are you going to do? Turn the car around and head back home? Because frankly, that sounds like a much better idea than heading into the wilds of Pennsylvania.”

“It’s not the wilds, not by a long shot.”

“Do you know that there are more bears in Pike County than dogs?”

“That’s not true, at least not any longer.”

Neal kept up a quiet grumble. “You know, Peter, when I signed up for this, I thought I’d be kept within a two-mile radius centered in Manhattan. Not dragged out of a nice warm bed into the middle of Nowheresville, where you can’t even get a decent radio station, not to mention cell phone service.” He kept checking his Blackberry, but there was no signal. “At least if we’d taken your car, we’d have satellite radio. Maybe listen to Howard Stern.”

Peter wanted to tell him that in sixteen weeks, he could just stay in bed. Instead, he turned and glared at Neal. “Since when do you like Howard Stern?”

“I don’t, but I’d sure like to have the opportunity to listen to something other than static and the emergency road condition messages.”

“Look, we’ll be there in a half-hour.” Peter gritted his teeth, trying not to give in to his temper.

“Tell me again, what possible white collar crime could have been committed out here that needs or deserves the attention of the New York City office?”

He was just about ready to strangle Neal when a huge deer jumped out in front of the car. He swerved, trying to avoid the animal, but neither Peter nor the car reacted fast enough and they crashed into the beast’s hindquarters. The impact was sickening, and after the explosive rush of the airbags, they could hear the screams of the wounded animal, the thrashing as it fought to rise and run off on broken legs.

“You okay?” Neal confirmed that he was and they both struggled to get out of the car.

The poor animal was still trying to get up, to get away. Peter felt ill – this was a lord of the forest, a twenty point buck in the prime of its life, and if he didn’t do something, it would linger in pain for hours, if not days. Standing just out of range of the terrible, majestic spread of antlers, he pulled out his Glock, flicked off the safety, and chambered a round. The poor, broken beast stilled, as if filled with the understanding that Peter wanted to end its pain. He aimed for the center of one of those dark, liquid eyes and pulled the trigger. The buck died instantly.

Peter thought he heard something, a scream on the wind – or maybe it was Neal’s gasp of shock at the swiftness of this death.

He stepped away and reholstered his weapon. Peter wanted to get the carcass off of the road, but the flood of adrenaline from the impact drained out of him. His body ached from the bruises left by the seatbelt and the airbag, and he was weak and nauseated, his rapidly pounding heart the only thing he could hear.

He looked for Neal, and found him. He just stood there, eyes huge, pupils mere pinpoints in the bright light; then his outline wavered, and he became something else. Peter’s first thought was that maybe he was having a heart attack and his vision was fading from the lack of oxygen. He tried to reach out to the other man, tried to hold onto something. He didn’t want to die here, on this desolate, empty road.

“Peter, Peter? What’s happening?” Neal’s voice sounded like he was across a vast and empty room, echoing in his head, between the spaces of his pounding heart. Then Neal was silent but everything else was incredibly loud. He had never heard birdsong like this before, and not only birds but insects and the rush of wind and the shivering of the leaves. Yet, as amazing as these sounds were, the scents of a whole new universe surrounded him – the _greenness_ of the grass and trees, the hot chemical odors of pavement, of rubber, the metallic smell of the spent cartridge and gunpowder. And overriding everything else was the scent of new blood and the musk of the deer, and Peter’s mouth began to water.

Beyond the utter weirdness of his senses, everything else felt strange; his clothing didn’t fit, it constricted and bound him like a mummy’s wrappings and he pulled at it, only to find that he no longer had hands. He had...paws. His whole body shuddered at the pain of standing upright on legs that wouldn’t support his massive torso, and he dropped to all fours. Instinct tried to take over and Peter fought to remain _himself_ , but the pull of this otherness was very strong.

He bit and clawed and snapped and shook his body; fabric shredded under teeth and claws, but his front legs were still tangled in a complex set of leather straps. He twisted and turned, trying to catch the bindings and free himself, but it was no use. He couldn’t reach the buckle no matter how hard he tried, and he dropped onto his belly in exhaustion. Suddenly, another mouth, a _muzzle_ , nudged at him, and began to chew at the damned straps, freeing him from the gun harness and then his shirt.

 _Neal?_ Standing over him was a huge dog with a rough gray and black coat. He _knew_ this was Neal – something within his soul told him that this was his partner, his friend.

 _Peter? What’s happened to us?_ He heard Neal in his head – his _voice_ cut through the sounds of the world, the beat of his heart, like a knife.

 _I don’t know…you look like a huge dog. You **are** a huge dog._ Peter stood up, on four legs, and he caught something out of the corner of his eye, something long and red and a little snake-like. He spun around, teeth bared in a snarl, to catch it. He missed, spotted it again, and missed again. The third time was the charm and he snapped hard – and let go in a howl of rather startling pain. He’d bitten his tail. He’d bitten his _fucking_ tail.

He heard laughter, almost silent, huffing laughter and found big-dog Neal, sitting on his haunches, mouth open and tongue lolling in canine amusement.

 _You think this is funny, Caffrey?_

Neal’s muzzle shut with a snap, and his chin went down, but his own tail brushed back and forth against the sun-warmed ground. _No, Peter. I swear, I don’t think it’s funny that you just bit your own tail._

 _Good._ Peter didn’t believe Neal for a moment, because it really _was_ too fucking funny that he’d gone slightly crazy and chased his own tail.

 _Shit – we are **dogs** , Neal. We’re a pair of dogs_.

 _I know! Isn’t it the coolest thing? I can smell EVERYTHING!_ Neal walked around him and actually sniffed his butt. Peter snapped at him and he yipped, but that really didn’t deter Neal from doing just what dogs have done for millennia.

 _Stop that!_ Neal would enjoy this. _Sit, stay – I need to think._

 _You know, Peter, for a dog, you’re still very good at giving orders. Sit, stay, roll over. What next? Fetch? Play dead?_

Neal kept up a running commentary, much as he’d done for the entire ride to Pennsylvania. The rush of words was accompanied by a complex tangle of emotions. Peter didn’t try to tune him out – he was too afraid to lose that connection; he instinctively knew it linked him to his humanity, but it was making him panic – it was too much all at once. He tried dialing things back, filtering out everything but the underlying link between them. Something popped, like his ears clearing after takeoff, and the flood of emotions pouring through him was reduced to a mere trickle. He paced back and forth, desperately trying to ignore the dead deer and the so-enticing smell of fresh blood. Finally, he sat down next to Neal, who didn’t seem to have any problems with the carcass not ten feet away.

 _Why aren’t you panicking? Or at least upset? You’ve just shredded your suit. You’re a DOG!_ Peter knew that the suit was a silly thing to focus on, but at this moment, he couldn’t seem to think of anything that would rile Neal more than damage to his wardrobe.

 _Peter, I am a dog. I am a big dog. I am a big dog without a collar or a GPS tracking unit strapped to my ankle. I am FREE!_ Neal seemed elated, rather than concerned. And then he turned and looked back at the pile of clothing he’d left behind. _Besides, my suit isn’t torn, not like yours._ He gave a very convincing canine approximation of a disdainful sniff.

And with that, Neal lumbered to his feet – because he was, in fact, a very big dog, the biggest Peter had ever seen – and began loping down the road, tail held high and nose to the wind.

 _Where the HELL do you think you are going?_ Neal didn’t answer, he just kept going. Peter pushed all his will into his next call. _Neal Caffrey! Get back here this instant. Just because you’ve got four months left doesn’t mean you can just run off!_

Neal stopped, tried to keep going and then stopped again, finally dropping to his belly. Peter trotted over to him. _What the fuck do you think you’re doing?_ He stood over Neal and nipped his ear.

Neal yipped at the pain. _Ouch! Stop that!_

 _I’ll ask you, one more time, where do you think you’re going?_

 _Don’t know._ Neal gave the equivalent of a canine shrug. _Wasn’t going to go far…just wanted to get away from the thing – the deer. It made me … hungry._

Typical … dog or man, Neal had to make his own life just a little difficult. He nipped Neal again, this time on his shoulder. _Come on, let’s get off the road._ The bite was gentle this time, and Neal only looked at Peter in mild disgust.

They climbed up a shallow embankment and found themselves in a richly shaded forest of oak and maple. The edges of everything seemed clear and sharp and he could see great detail, even at a long distance, but something was different.

 _Where are the colors? It’s like living in an Ansel Adams photograph!_

Peter remembered, then. _Dogs don’t really see colors as humans do. It’s mostly shades of gray in the low end of the spectrum. Like colors in twilight._

That seemed to take a lot of the joy out of Neal. His tail went down, and his muzzle clamped shut. _Maybe I don’t like being a dog so much._ Neal plopped down on a pile of decaying leaves. _What are we going to do?_

 _That’s what I was trying to figure out when you took off like you didn’t have a care in the world. The only way we’re going to get through this is if we stick together. And whatever happens, we mustn’t get separated. You have to stay by me, okay? We’ll never get home if we lose each other. Think of it as the Golden Rule. Got that?_ Once again, he pushed the entire force of his will into the thought.

 _Yes._ Neal’s agreement was just as forceful and unequivocal.

Peter sat down next to Neal. _Keep quiet for a bit and let me think, okay?_

Neal didn’t say anything; he just looked at Peter with those huge eyes.

Peter-the-man wasn’t the type to meditate or even let himself get taken out of the moment, but now, he desperately wanted to still everything, shut out all of these newly sharpened senses. He wanted to be able to think, to reason. He didn’t want every logical thought to be a struggle. As he closed off the sounds and the scents of the forest and concentrated on his breathing, he felt a curl of panic. It wasn’t his, though. It was Neal's.

 _Please, don’t shut me out_. The plea was accompanied by a very canine whimper and a lick across his muzzle.

Peter relented and in his head, he kept something opened – call it a connection, a link, a leash between himself and Neal. The other man, _dog_ , settled down and Peter tried to focus. His breathing slowed, and while he could feel Neal in the back of his mind like an itch, something else overrode the bombardment of new sensations, the enticements of scent and sound. What he felt, deep in his heart, his head, his soul, was the need to get back to Elizabeth, to the solace of her arms. If she could touch him, let him know that she loved him, that whatever he had done didn’t matter, then he would be all right.

Neal whimpered again, and crawled a little closer, resting his head on Peter’s paws. _What are we going to do, Peter?_

 _We are going to go home_.

 

NEAL WATCHED, INCREDULOUS, AS PETER TOOK OFF AT AN EASY PACE, LIKE A TROTTING PONY. He was heading east; at least that’s what Neal hoped. He followed; he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be left behind, it was that he couldn’t stop his body from getting up and moving and going after him. Peter was like a magnet and he was a helpless batch of iron filings. Not that he _didn’t_ want to go with Peter – it was just that he slightly, ever so slightly, resented this need to follow. But lately, this was the way it had been. Peter said _jump_ , and he didn’t even bother to ask _how high?_

It was funny that Peter was a big dog in life, now. Big and commanding, and he’d bet that one bark and Peter would have every dog in the county at his feet. When he had made that tentative break for freedom, back on the road, he’d known that he wouldn’t get far, and he really hadn’t cared, either. He hadn’t even thought much about it, except that he didn’t have the tracker on and he was ostensibly free. But Peter’s voice inside his head was worse than any leash, any tether. It stopped him cold, and it was all he could do not to roll over and offer the other man, _the other dog_ his bare throat and unprotected belly. And the emotions from Peter – the fear, the worry, even a hint of anger. They were too much to deal with, they sent up echoes within him. Neal didn’t know exactly what had happened to shut them down, but almost everything he was feeling from Peter had toned down from a loud roar to a low hum, then to nothing. He relaxed, grateful for that small relief.

So now, he was loping slightly behind Peter-the-dog, heading _home_ , except he had no home. Not that he didn’t love living at June’s, but it wasn’t his. It was a place he’d landed through a combination of luck and charm and guile. It wasn't the neat house with the white picket fence, and it never would be.

After a while, even that thought began to fade, lost in the forest with the birdsong and the leaves and all the sounds of the natural world. Their passage through the woods wasn’t quiet; stealth had never occurred to them. Neal caught the scents of rabbit and squirrel (though how his still human mind knew what those smells were, precisely, he wasn’t sure), and he neatly dodged piles of deer spoor and denser, darker piles of bear scat. He tried to chuckle at the whole concept, but the pace and his canine throat weren’t made for laughter.

He must have made a sound, because Peter stopped and looked back at him.

 _You okay?_

 _Yeah...just trying to laugh at my own joke._

 _Wanna share?_

 _It’s really not that funny._

 _If you’re amused, you’re doing good...so let me in on the joke._

Neal wondered if Peter could feel his embarrassment at his overly juvenile sense of humor. _We passed a pile of bear shit._

He did feel Peter’s amusement, and it was like the first taste of a glass of champagne, bright and dry and sparkling. _I guess bears **do** shit in the woods_.

They kept on moving at a steady pace through the forest, which thinned and thickened between one stride and the next. There was a real joy in traveling like this, Peter in front of him or beside him. Moving through light and shadow without really a care in the world - fearing nothing, wanting nothing. He could feel Peter in the back of his mind, like a comfortable and well-scratched itch, he wondered if he felt that way to Peter. It was strange that he could be this happy. The tracker might be lying abandoned on a deserted road and a mystery for someone else to solve, but he was tied closer to Peter than he could ever imagine.

He had no idea how long they had been traveling, he just kept his eyes on Peter’s tail (not that he really needed to see Peter) and followed. When Peter came to a halt, Neal was completely unprepared and crashed into him.

 _Hey, give a guy some warning!_

Peter didn’t answer, but Neal felt something … like awkwardness, discomfort. _What’s the matter, Peter?_

 _I have to go._

 _Yeah, I know, go home. To Brooklyn. That’s where we’re heading, hopefully._

 _No, not that. I have to **go** … take a shit. Like the bear._

If thoughts could be colored hot and red, Peter’s certainly were. Neal tried not to let his amusement show – if only because he was feeling the same need.

 _There’s a fallen log over there._ Neal pointed over to the left with his snout. _I promise not to look._

Peter gave Neal a dirty stare and a slight growl as he went and crouched behind the log. Neal found another convenient deadfall. In prison, he had lost most of his modesty when it came to bodily functions, and this didn’t really seem to matter too much. It was the sudden and intense urge to piss on every tree and bush that bothered him, that seemed so much more animalistic.

He forced himself to void his bladder in one shot (okay, two), and sat down, legs spread. He resisted the urge to lick himself, but not the urge to get a good look at his genitalia (those were a nicely impressive set of balls he was sporting), and waited for Peter to finish his own business. He got up and paced, sort of impatient to get going again.

When they met up, Peter seemed … well, worried.

 _What’s the matter now?_

 _Have you given any thought at all as to what we’re going to eat or drink? It’s not like either of us can just walk into a restaurant and order a meal. And right now that’s not even an option – we’re about seventy-five miles from any sort of civilization. We’re going to have to get some fresh water soon. And solid food._

Neal sat down with a thump. He licked his chops, and started to pant, his mouth suddenly dry. This was going to be a problem. He tried not to panic. They could go without food, but without fresh water, they were doomed. He stuck his nose, his _snout_ , in the air and let the dog senses take over. He felt something – a slice of coolness, satisfaction, liquid pleasure, and he knew he’d found it.

 _There’s fresh water over there_.

Neal loped down a small hill and across a rocky outcropping to a running brook. Instinct told him to drink as far upstream as possible and he backtracked a few hundred yards. Peter followed without comment.

Neal plunged his head into the water, which was shockingly cold. He drew back and shook, flinging droplets all over Peter, who somehow wore the same expression he did when Satchmo shook himself dry. Neal lowered his snout again, this time just above the water, and began to lap. It took a few tries, but he quickly got the hang of it. Peter followed suit. Neal eventually had his fill, and then some. He walked as far from the stream as he dared and pissed. And pissed. And pissed some more.

 _Having fun, Jackson Pollack?_

Neal looked back at his friend, just a little sheepish. _And you haven’t marked your share of trees and bushes? My nose works quite well, thank you very much._

Peter chose the high road and ignored Neal. _Come on, we need to get going before it gets dark. I’d like to try to find Route 84, which should take us back to some sort of civilization._

Neal wondered at Peter’s compass; he seemed so certain that they were heading in the right direction. _Are you relying on your gut, Peter?_

Peter didn’t answer right away. _Something is pulling me in this direction, Neal. It’s like a big, bright arrow that says ‘this way home’. Call it instinct, a gift, my gut. All I know is that this is the right direction, and that we need to keep going for as long as possible._ Peter paused his thoughts, but not his pace. _You okay with that?_

 _Peter, I trust you to get us home._ Something rose up within Neal, something primal, something terrible and fierce. Neal was careful to keep it to himself. _I’ll be right beside you, to the end. Whatever it takes, I’ll get you home to Elizabeth. Even if I die trying._


	2. WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

ELIZABETH BURKE WAS A PRACTICAL WOMAN, NOT GIVEN TO FLIGHTS OF FANCY OR UNWARRANTED WORRYING. That was one of the reasons that her marriage to Peter was at the start of a second and very strong decade. If he didn’t call, she didn’t automatically assume something bad had happened. He worked in white collar crime, and despite the occasional _interesting_ issues that cropped up when Neal was involved, he was rarely in physical danger. Elizabeth wasn’t the type of woman who panicked or became hysterical at the hint of bad news. But today, something just felt off, and it kept scratching at the back of her neck like a tag on a new blouse. Something was wrong and she couldn’t put her finger on it.

She called Peter’s personal cell a few times, and it went straight to voice mail. She called his FBI-issued phone, and got the same thing. She called Neal, and it too went straight to voice mail. She sent text messages to Peter’s personal cell and to Neal’s, but they were not answered. By three PM, the itching at the back of her neck had become a hard knot of worry for which she had no explanation. The anxiety was irrational, she had no reason to believe that Peter was in any trouble, and the lack of contact wasn’t _that_ unusual. He did say that they were heading out to rural Pennsylvania to interview a suspect but he wouldn’t be home too late, maybe even for dinner if traffic wasn’t too bad. So, there really was no reason to worry. No reason at all.

Elizabeth kept telling herself that as she dialed another number.

Diana answered on the first ring.

“Mrs. Burke, what can I do for you?”

Elizabeth skipped right over the pleasantries. “Diana – have you heard from Peter today?”

“No, I haven’t. Peter and Neal are in Pennsylvania, interviewing a suspect.”

“I know that, but I haven’t heard from Peter – and he’ll usually call me once or twice. His phone is going right to voice mail.” She didn’t mention that she’d called Neal, as that would have sounded, well, odd.

Diana sighed, and Elizabeth could hear just the tiniest bit of irritation.

“Diana, something just doesn’t feel right.”

There was no response for a few moments, but Diana must have picked up the urgency in her voice. “Hold on, let me check Neal’s tracking data.”

Elizabeth heard the wheels on Diana’s chair roll as she pushed back, followed by the click of heels across the floor, then the tap-tap-tap of nails across a keyboard. Then nothing.

“That’s strange.” Diana didn’t seem to be talking to Elizabeth.

“What’s strange?” The knot of worry grew harder and colder.

“Ummm – nothing. Can I call you back?” Diana’s studied nonchalance didn’t fool Elizabeth one bit.

“Diana, what’s going on?” All she got was dead air.

 

DIANA FELT TERRIBLY GUILTY ABOUT ENDING THE CALL THE WAY SHE DID, but there was no way she could give out this information, even to Peter’s wife, without checking it out and then clearing it through Hughes. Fortunately, Hughes was in his office, and he gestured for her to come in before she even knocked.

“Agent Berrigan, is there a problem?”

Diana was rarely intimidated, but there was always something about Hughes that made her feel like she was talking to her father, in full ambassador mode. She tried not to appear nervous and schooled herself against licking her lips.

“I just got a call from Elizabeth Burke, Peter’s wife.” She paused a bit under that gimlet stare.

“I know who Elizabeth Burke is.” Hughes’ tone was steely, but polite.

“She said she hasn’t heard from Peter all day, and his phone keeps going to voice mail. I wanted to let her know where Peter was, so I checked Neal’s tracking data.”

Hughes just raised his rather impressive eyebrows. “And?”

“There’s a problem, sir. Neal’s tracker has been stationary for over five hours.”

“Stationary? How stationary?” Hughes sat up, concerned.

“Stationary as in it hasn’t moved – not a single yard. And the location is even more troubling – it’s on a dead-end road that cuts through the Delaware Forest and the State Game Lands, about sixty miles from their destination.”

“Did you call the Marshals’ office and have them check for a malfunction?”

“Yes sir, I did. I also called the motor pool and asked them to run a locator on the vehicle’s GPS. It’s within ten feet of Neal’s tracker. It’s also been stationary for about five hours.”

“Call the local PD or state troopers’ office there – wherever _there_ is – and tell them to check out the location and report back to you immediately. Let them know that we’ll be onsite within two hours.”

“Sir? Two hours?”

“I’m calling for helicopter transport. You and Agent Jones will meet me on the roof in fifteen minutes.”

“What should I tell Mrs. Burke?”

Hughes closed his eyes and sighed. “Tell her nothing, for the moment.”

Diana nodded. She didn’t like it, but she understood.

 

THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE POLICE STATION IN BLOOMING GROVE WAS A HOTBED OF INACTIVITY AT THE MOMENT. That’s not to say that the troopers were wasting taxpayer money, but it was less than an hour before shift change on a Wednesday afternoon in June, and the last thing that anyone wanted to do was take a call from New York City. Not that anyone had an issue with the Big Apple, but a call from a 212 number was never a good thing. The desk sergeant, two officers and the lieutenant watched the number blink on the general incoming line. Finally, the senior officer on duty sighed and picked up the call.

“Pennsylvania State Police, Lieutenant Michael Reitman speaking.” Reitman hoped he kept most of the boredom out of his voice.

“This is FBI Special Agent Diana Berrigan out of the New York City Field Office. Am I speaking with the officer in charge?”

Reitman put the phone on speaker and raised his eyebrows as if he was impressed.

“Yes, ma’am. You are.”

“Is this station responsible for Fire Tower Road?”

“I believe so, ma’am. What is the problem?”

“I have an agent and a federal employee missing, and their last location was on that road.”

Reitman could hear the worry in the woman’s voice. “How do you know that?”

“One of the men has a GPS tracker and there is also a tracker in the car. Both units have been reported as stationary for over five hours.”

Reitman was curious as to why a federal employee would be wearing a GPS, but he refrained from asking. It sounded like the Feebs were in some serious trouble. “Do you have the exact location?”

The agent read out a set of coordinates and then gave him the miles from the main road and from Route 84.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll send a car over to check it out.” He wondered what they were doing on that road; it went nowhere, just stopped in the middle of the woods.

“We’ll meet you there within the next two hours.”

“Ma’am?”

“We’ll be taking a helicopter in. It’s the quickest way from Manhattan.”

 _Now_ Reitman was impressed. “We’ll see you there, ma’am.”

The fed gave him her contact information and quickly disconnected. Reitman looked at his officers. “Looks like we’ve got something. Anyone want to ride with me on this?” Neither of the on-duty officers volunteered; it was now a half-hour from shift change and they knew he wouldn’t be offering overtime. But three troopers from the evening shift came in and he commandeered the youngest, newest officer on the squad, Sylvia Marlowe, to ride with him.

Reitman was grateful it was June and sunset wasn’t for another four hours. Fire Tower Road was an interesting drive in daylight, but difficult at night, and if they were looking for a wreck, darkness wouldn’t help the situation. He let Marlowe drive while he relaxed.

“Shit, this doesn’t look good.”

Reitman looked up – he really _wasn’t_ dozing off – and Marlowe was right, it wasn’t good. There was a large deer, a large _dead_ deer, in the middle of the road, surrounded by dozens of buzzards. There was also a beige sedan that looked like standard Fed issue. Both front doors were open. He told Marlowe to stop about 50 feet away and to pop the trunk. He retrieved a shotgun, loaded it and fired in the air to scatter the carrion feeders. Most of the birds took off with squawks of protest, and he fired a second round to get rid of the rest of them.

As he approached the car, he noticed that both the front airbags were deployed and deflated, and since the doors were open, it wasn’t hard to conclude that the passenger and driver had left the vehicle under their own steam. But he didn’t see any sign of them.

“Sir, this is weird.”

Marlowe was kneeling on the ground next to what looked like a pair of pants. Reitman then noticed more clothing scattered across the side of the road. He pulled on a pair of gloves and examined a shirt caught inside a very expensive suit jacket. Weird wasn’t the word for it, for while the jacket was intact, the shirt was ripped apart at the seams. He gently patted the jacket, hoping to find a wallet or some ID. He hit the jackpot: a set of FBI credentials for “Neal Caffrey, Consultant.”

Marlowe walked over to him, holding out a shiny gold shield. She was shaking her head in puzzlement. “What happened here, sir?” She pointed to the other side of the road. “Those clothes were ripped apart, but there’s no blood.”

Reitman didn’t want to speculate. He had nearly twenty years with the State Police and had seen a lot of strange things. This one was shaping up to be the strangest. A pair of missing and probably naked federal agents – that was going to bring down a lot of heat on his sleepy little kingdom. Heat he neither wanted nor needed.

Reitman went back to his car and retrieved a camera and a crime scene kit. He figured the Feds would have their own, but this was still his jurisdiction. Marlowe set up the evidence markers and he started taking pictures. It was funny how looking through the isolation of the viewfinder made you notice things you ordinarily didn’t see, like how both pairs of pants were still belted, and the ends of the belts were still tucked into the belt loops. How did they get these pants off without unbuckling the belts? Or that one of the shoes was filled with a sock and what looked like a GPS tracking anklet, as if the body wearing it had simply melted away.

Reitman and Marlowe worked on the scene for over an hour before they heard the sound of helicopter blades. Reitman looked up. It was the Feds, and the pilot did have the sense God gave him (or her). The chopper flew off and landed about a half-mile away. About five minutes later, two men and a woman jogged up the road.

“Lieutenant Reitman?” The woman he presumed was Agent Berrigan held out her hand to him. He took it and appreciated the firm, no-nonsense handshake. She introduced the obviously senior-ranking Agent Hughes and Agent Jones, and stepped back to let Hughes take over. The three of them were grim-faced, expecting the worst.

“What happened here, Lieutenant?” Reitman appreciated that Agent Hughes asked, rather than demanded.

“I really can’t tell you more than that this is a very strange scene, Sir. Your agents’ car hit a deer.” He pointed to the dead buck. “The driver and passenger got out, and for some completely unknown reason, tore their clothes off and disappeared. Or possibly had their clothing torn off involuntarily.”

“What do you mean by ‘disappeared’?”

“There are no bodies, no blood trails, no footprints.” He walked Hughes and the other agents through the scene, and Marlowe followed behind him, bagging and marking the scattered clothing and shreds of fabric. When they came to Peter’s shoulder holster and weapon, he handed the Glock to Hughes, who had donned a set of gloves. He carefully examined it, down to a sniff test.

“This has been fired, recently.”

“I expect that would be the deer, Sir.” Marlowe piped up.

“The deer?” Hughes handed the weapon back to Reitman, who passed it to Marlowe for bagging. Reitman led the three agents to the dead buck that was still lying in the middle of the road. He could see that the Feds were all urban warriors, too much at home with the dirt and grime of the city streets but not at all comfortable with nature red in tooth and nail. Berrigan and Jones were mouth-breathing, and even the senior Fed was a little pale at the sight of the deer, entrails exposed by the buzzards. Marlowe pointed out the exit site for a GSW at the back of the buck’s head.

“It looks like your agent made a kill shot after hitting the animal.” Marlowe was impressed, and so was Reitman. It wasn’t often that he saw city folks with enough compassion to put a wounded animal out of its misery. Usually, they drove off or called 911 to deal with the mess.

They continued to walk carefully through the scene, and Reitman was seriously impressed by the Feds. They were respectful and methodical; he never felt that they considered him anything less than a fellow law enforcement agent.

Eventually, the old man pulled him away from the scene. “Lieutenant Reitman, can you offer any rational explanation for what happened here?”

He shook his head. “No, sir. I’ve never seen anything like this. I mean, there are all sorts of stories about people going crazy and attacking each other, or even getting attacked by bears, but there’s nothing to back up either of those scenarios. Except for the torn clothing, there are no signs of struggle, and even that doesn’t make sense. If it wasn’t for the lack of blood anywhere, I’d have said that your people were stripped naked and kidnapped, but I don’t see a federal agent allowing that to happen without a fight.”

Hughes nodded his agreement. “I’d like for the FBI to take the lead on this, at least on the forensics and the search and rescue. If it turns out to be a homicide….” Hughes paused, looked down and swallowed. “A homicide, the FBI will cede jurisdiction back to your department.”

Reitman agreed that the FBI should take the lead, especially with the forensics: while the State Police had decent resources, they were nothing compared to what the FBI had. Same with the search and rescue operation – he was a compassionate man, but he’d rather have the Feds foot that bill, or at least most of it. He didn’t hold out much hope that they’d find the two men alive, but like most LEOs, he was a professional pessimist.

“The two men, you are close to them?” Reitman couldn’t help but ask.

“Peter Burke was my probationary agent half a lifetime ago and someone I am proud to call a friend. Neal Caffrey is a rather extraordinary young man, especially now that his talents are being put to use on the right side of the law.”

Reitman noticed that the Fed was careful to use the present tense when talking about the two missing men, and while he was intrigued by the description of Neal Caffrey, he forbore from asking for additional details. Right now, they weren’t relevant.

As Marlowe and the two other Feds finished gathering up the evidence, a flatbed truck arrived to take the Feds’ vehicle and full dark started to settle in.

“Sirs?” It was Marlowe. “What about the carcass?”

Hughes answered. “It’s evidence. We’ll need to take it back with us.”

Marlowe looked at him, perhaps expecting a different set of orders.

“You heard the agent, Officer Marlowe. It’s evidence and it needs to be tagged and bagged. You may want to call for backup on that.” Marlowe flushed at the reprimand.

Hughes gave him a tight smile, perhaps in appreciation for how he handled his subordinate. “I’m going to head back to New York, get a search and rescue team down here.” Hughes turned and looked at the dense forest. “We should be searching for them already, but where the hell to begin?”

Reitman watched as the three Feds conferred. Agent Jones got in the tow truck and Berrigan started piling up the bags of evidence. Marlowe put them in the back of the squad car and drove back down the road, presumably to transfer the evidence bags to the waiting helicopter.

Hughes held out his hand. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll see you at your barracks first thing tomorrow morning to start the search and rescue.”

 

PETER WAS HUNGRY, HIS FEET, _HIS PAWS_ , HURT, SO DID HIS HEAD, AND HE WASN’T SURE IF HE COULD TAKE ANOTHER STEP. At least he wasn’t thirsty. Neal seemed to find fresh water for them every few hours. The trees had thinned out enough that he could tell that the sun was setting – they were running into the dark. He stopped, waited for Neal to catch up, and then just dropped.

 _You okay?_

 _Yeah, just tired. Dog tired._

 _Very funny, Peter._

 _Having a sense of humor is a hallmark of humanity._

Neal dropped down beside him and rested his head on his paws. _What now? > _

_We’ll stop for the night._

 _Do you have any sense of how far we’ve come?_

Peter tried to drift a little bit, to find that bright-arrowed compass inside his head. Unfortunately, it didn’t have an odometer attached to it. But it did tell him that they weren’t too far from the main east-west highway.

Neal scooted up close to him. _Well? Anything?_

 _We’re on track, but that’s all I can tell you. We’re going to need to eat soon. Without food, we can’t keep up this pace._

 _Hmmmm, wouldn’t mind a fillet right now – with some new potatoes, some sautéed greens. The bottle of Shiraz I’ve got stashed away._

 _Is that a meal you’d dream about in prison?_

 _Nah – never dreamed about food in prison. If there was something I wanted badly enough, I could have gotten it. Food was never high on my list._

 _What was?_

 _What do you mean?_

Peter looked at Neal, concern, curiosity and something else in his eyes. _What did you dream about when you were in prison?_

Neal paused in his thoughts, and Peter could almost feel a curtain draw around his partner. He didn’t like it, not one bit.

 _Neal?_ His tone was sharp, echoing like a clap in an empty room.

 _Peter? What’s the matter?_

 _You almost disappeared on me._

 _Sorry, your question was kind of personal. I guess I just wasn’t expecting it._

 _You don’t have to answer._

 _No, that’s okay. I dreamed about Kate. A lot._

Peter felt the sadness rolling off of Neal.

 _I’m sorry._

 _No, that’s okay. I used to think about you too, you know._

 _Me?_ Peter didn’t know how to feel about that.

 _Yeah, you didn’t think I’d just forget about the only person who ever caught me? I used to wonder what happened to you, how you got along after I went to prison. If you were bored or you were chasing someone more interesting or smarter than me._

 _You are such a narcissist._

 _Well, you always interested me. You were a puzzle, a challenge._

 _I’m flattered … I think._

 _I liked you. I still do. Even though you seem to get me in all sorts of trouble._

 _Me? Get **you** in trouble? Not likely._ It shouldn’t have been possible, but Peter smirked at Neal.

 _Ummm, let’s see, since I’ve met you, I’ve had guns pulled on me on a regular basis. I’ve even been shot at a few times. Never had that when I was on my own. Ran with a better element, I guess. And now ... I’m a dog. I don’t think this is something that would have happened to me if I was on my own._

 _Then you should have stayed on the right side of the law._ If anything, the smirk widened.

 _But that wouldn’t have been as much fun._

 _That’s true. That’s very, very true._

Neal scooted even closer. And rested his head on Peter’s flank.

Peter twisted his neck down and they touched muzzles, a small reassurance before falling asleep.


	3. WEDNESDAY EVENING

IT WAS COLD AND DARK INSIDE HER HOUSE, EVEN WITH EVERY LIGHT ON. Without Peter, the house was just that, a building. Four walls, rooms and some furnishings. Satchmo was on the couch with her, his head on her lap, his body shivering. She dialed Peter’s cell phones every ten minutes, hoping for an answer. She had stopped trying to reach Neal hours ago. Diana wasn’t picking up, and neither was Jones. When she tried to speak with Reese Hughes, all she got was that he was unavailable for the rest of the day. At this moment, Elizabeth actively, passionately despised the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation, and particularly Peter’s supposedly loyal staff.

It was after 9 p.m., she hadn’t heard a word from her husband in nearly twelve hours, and it was over six hours since she had spoken with Diana. Diana, who ended their phone call with “that’s strange” and nothing more. She dialed Peter’s cell phone again, and again, and again, and was ready to throw the phone across the room in frustration. Instead, she carefully placed it back on the cradle and stroked Satchmo’s head until he whimpered.

Elizabeth had no idea how long she had been sitting on her couch, staring into space, when the doorbell rang. She closed her eyes against the sick dread. Satchmo lumbered off the couch and went to the door to greet the visitor. She slowly followed, her footsteps leaden.

It was Reese Hughes, alone.

Elizabeth didn’t want to let him in, as if keeping him outside would keep the bad news at bay.

She opened the door.

“Elizabeth.”

“Reese.”

“May I come in?”

“Please do.” Elizabeth stepped aside and let him come into the living room. Some crazy, insane, hysterical part of her brain thought that if Hughes were a vampire, she would have just given him the ability to take up housekeeping here. She didn’t offer him coffee or water or anything.

“Where’s Peter? What’s happened to my husband?”

“Elizabeth…”

“Damn it, Reese. I called Diana six hours ago, and she hasn’t gotten back to me. I haven’t heard a word from anyone. Please, tell me. Where is my husband?” She grabbed his jacket, as if to shake an answer out of him.

Hughes steered her towards the couch and sat her down, holding her small cold hands between his own larger and even colder ones.

“Elizabeth, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Peter – Peter and Neal are missing.”

She was silent for the space of a few heartbeats. “What do you mean, missing?” Her voice was ice cold.

In very few words, Reese told her about how they found Peter’s motor pool car abandoned beside the carcass of a large deer, and that there was no sign of either Neal or Peter. She watched the man’s eyes, which rarely met hers. He was hiding something big.

“Reese, that might do for a press conference, but I want the whole story. Don’t you dare leave anything out. This is my husband you are talking about.”

So she listened, by turns horrified and incredulous.

“You think that someone, or a number of someones, overpowered both Peter and Neal, tore their clothes off and kidnapped them?”

“That’s what it looks like. But there was no blood, it doesn’t appear that either Peter or Neal was badly injured when they were taken.”

“What about Neal’s tracker?” Elizabeth felt like Reese was still hiding something, and given his reluctance to respond, it seemed that this was it.

Hughes scrubbed at his face and she wanted to shake him. “Reese, please.”

“Caffrey’s tracker was found at the scene. It was intact and still transmitting.”

“What?”

“Neal Caffrey’s tracking anklet was locked and fully functioning. There was no sign of tampering. It was as if it fell off his foot.” Hughes didn’t want to reveal how strange the actual positioning of the anklet was, caught up in Neal’s sock and shoe. Peter’s wife didn’t need to know that. “That was how we knew there was something wrong. When you called Diana and she checked Neal’s tracking data, it showed that his unit hadn’t moved in five hours. Given the level of sensitivity of the device, that was big red flag.”

“Don’t the Marshals let you know about anomalies like that?”

“Yes, and even though Neal was on monitoring status, they should have alerted Diana or Jones or me. But that’s beside the point. Somehow, Neal’s tracker was removed without unlocking it.”

A horrible, sickening thought occurred to Elizabeth. “Could whoever took them… could they have shattered Neal’s foot to get it off?”

“That is …” Hughes swallowed. “That is a possibility. The lab is running tests on it.”

“What happens now?” Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself.

“We’re sending in search teams at first light. Including dogs. I’ll need something of Peter’s to give them for the scent.”

She was halfway up the stairs to get a piece of her husband’s dirty laundry when Hughes called out to her.

“Elizabeth, we’ll also need a DNA sample. Hair, maybe?”

Even though her heart seemed to freeze, Elizabeth didn’t pause.

 

MOZ WAS ENJOYING A NEAL-FREE EVENING WITH JUNE IN HER BACK PARLOR. Donizetti’s _Lucia di Lammermoor_ (the classic Joan Sutherland version) was playing softly in the background, and his hostess was soundly thrashing him at Parcheesi. Not that it mattered. Moz was pleasantly buzzed, having liberated a bottle of Shiraz from Neal’s collection to generously share with June. Well, sharing meant that June took a few sips and Moz drained the rest over a rather splendid dairy-free meal. Which was why, when the doorbell rang at a quarter to eleven, Moz was too mellow to realize that the world was about to crash in on him.

He was setting up the board for another game when the housekeeper interrupted them. She was carrying a silver tray with a business card, which she handed to June.

“ _Reese Hughes, Special Agent in Charge, White Collar Unit._ Moz, why would Peter’s boss be here now, at this hour?”

Mozzie immediately went into high alert, shaking the food and wine fuzziness out of his head. “I don’t know, but it can’t be good.” He checked his phone, but there were no messages or emails from Neal giving him a heads-up.

June told her housekeeper to bring the man to her. Moz tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. Neal had told him about Peter’s rather scary and intimidating boss, and the man seemed to typify the worst of the whole federal bureaucracy, efficient and relentless in his pursuit of the government’s objectives. But on the other hand, Neal was always careful to point out that it was Hughes who greenlit Neal’s first parole and signed off on the second deal, too.

And Moz, who had stared death in the face way too many times in the last few years, wasn’t about to be intimidated by an old, gray Suit, even if that Suit was one scary, bad-ass motherfucker. When Hughes entered the room, Moz faded into the background, fussing with the Parcheesi board, allowing June to present herself as mistress of this impressive abode.

“Agent Hughes, what brings you here this time of night?” Moz was, as always, impressed by the hauteur that June could bring to bear.

Moz felt something burning at the back of his neck, and he turned around to find the Old Gray Suit staring at him.

June must have realized that Hughes wouldn’t say anything without either Moz leaving the room (which he certainly wouldn’t do) or an introduction (which he wasn’t certain he wanted).

“Agent Hughes, I don’t believe you’ve met Neal’s friend, Dante Havisham?”

Hughes grunted an acknowledgement and, thankfully, did not hold out his hand.

Ever the fine hostess, even when faced with intrusive law enforcement at odd hours of the night, June said, “Would you care for a drink?”

“No, no thank you.” Hughes looked from June to Moz and back to June again.

Moz decided that it was time for him to speak up. “If this involves Neal, I’m his legal counsel – and I’m not leaving this room.”

Hughes stared at him and Moz knew that the man wanted to say something about his credentials, or the lack thereof. But there was no way in hell that Moz was giving the Old Gray Suit his real name.

“June, Mr. Havisham – I am afraid I have bad news.”

Moz felt the pit of his stomach just drop away.

“What happened?” Moz wasn’t sure if June asked or if he did.

“Sometime this morning, around 10 am, Agent Burke and Neal Caffrey disappeared in the Delaware State Forest in northeastern Pennsylvania.” Hughes – Agent Hughes – went on to tell them something about hitting a deer and scattered clothing.

“What about Neal’s tracker?” June asked the question that was forming on his tongue.

“His tracker was found working, near the abandoned car.”

Mozzie goggled at the man. “How the hell could that be? You just can’t cut the new model off – it requires …” He clamped his mouth shut. No matter what was going on with Neal, he wasn’t about to reveal professional secrets to a Fed.

Hughes didn’t even look at him – he seemed focused on his hands, or the floor. “We are going to send in a search team tomorrow morning, and they’ll need something for the dogs to work from – a piece of Neal’s clothing, a sock or underwear. That hasn’t been laundered. And the lab will need something for a DNA sample. Can one of you get these for us?”

“What do you think happened?” June’s voice was small, frightened.

“I don’t know – but they were probably taken by someone with a car or truck. It doesn’t make sense that they’d have been dragged off into the woods – but we’ve got to start a search somewhere.”

Hughes turned to look at him. “Mr. Havisham – do you know anyone who would want to hurt or kidnap Caffrey?”

Moz immediately thought of a dozen or so different crooks and con artists that Neal had dealt with or double-dealt over the years. “No one who would track him down like that – no one who would try for him when he was with the Suit.”

“The suit?”

“Your agent, Peter Burke.”

Hughes gave him a small, twisted smile. If Moz hadn’t been so worried about Neal, he’d have been scared enough to crap his pants.

“I’ll go get you something for the bloodhounds and your lab.” It went against every single principle to cooperate with the Feds, but this was for Neal. Who was missing and quite possibly injured. This was for his friend.

 

JONES STAYED BEHIND TO COORDINATE WITH THE STATE POLICE IN PENNSYLVANIA, Hughes had taken on the difficult task of first going to see Peter’s wife and then Neal’s landlady. Diana was left with the job of shepherding the physical evidence through the labs. While they were going to need DNA samples from both Peter and Neal (which Hughes was collecting), the labs could start processing the evidence from the site.

The dead deer was on its way – Jones had worked with the LEOs, including some State Fish and Game people, to get the carcass shipped to New York. He told Diana that he had almost clocked one of the transport guys when he suggested cutting off the massive rack of antlers for trophies. But the Fish and Game people intervened before he could get himself in trouble. Apparently, this species of deer wasn’t native to the area, and its antlers were outsized for the time of year. The Fish and Game guys were interested in the results of the autopsy.

So, it was left up to her to get the lab techs up and going, and watch over them. This type of evidentiary work was not something she had a lot of experience with. She could do the theoretical exercises, based on her Academy training, but she’d been working in white collar crimes since her first assignment, and there wasn’t a lot of call for physical forensics in her caseload.

Diana supposed that sitting in the lab, quietly observing, wasn’t the best use of her time, but there was little for her to do at 3 am except sleep, and she was too wired, too worried to even think about that. She knew she’d crash in a few hours, maybe on the ride back to Pennsylvania, but for now she wanted to keep watch, maybe make sure that the lab rats didn’t turn out the lights and leave it for tomorrow.

She must have dozed off, a bit of a micro-nap, when one of the techs startled her with a shout and she nearly fell of the lab stool.

“Hey – what’s the matter?”

“Is this some kind of joke?” The tech, whose name she didn’t get or didn’t remember, practically yelled at her. “You get me in here after hours, telling me that these clothes belong to missing Federal agents – ”

“One agent, one consultant.” She automatically corrected her.

“Whatever. But I’m asking what kind of shit-brained practical joke are you playing?”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” She never cursed, but the hour, her exhaustion and her anxiety over Peter and Neal had stripped Diana of her well-polished veneer.

“This clothing? It’s filled with dog hairs.”

Diana stared at the tech. “Wait? What did you just say?”

The tech began to speak, loud and slow, as if Diana were deaf or stupid. “I said – the inside of this clothing is coated with dog fur. As if it were worn by … DOGS.” She looked at Diana, contempt in her eyes. “And that might explain why some of the clothes were torn to pieces – like it was chewed off by DOGS.” The woman stood in front of Diana, belligerence radiating from head to toe.

“Look – that’s impossible. I was at the scene, I helped tag and bag the evidence. And I can tell you that that clothing belongs to Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey. Both men have dogs in their households, and it’s possible that some hair and dander got inside the fabric.” Diana knew that was a weak explanation; she couldn’t say for certain that Peter’s wardrobe wasn’t ever invaded by his dog, but she highly doubted that Neal would have let his landlady’s dog play inside his clothes.

The tech stepped back, a little mollified, and Diana finally got a look at her name tag, _Lydia Carlton_.

“What type of dogs do these guys have?”

“Agent Burke has a yellow lab, and Neal Caffrey’s landlady has a pug.”

Carlton shook her head. “That doesn’t explain it. The fur on the inside of the clothing is consistent for each set – long, black and gray on one, and reddish brown on the other. Both are wiry, with an undercoat. I’m not an expert, and I’ll send this over for zoological typing, but I’d have to say the fur or hair probably came from wirehaired pointers or something similar. And even if your guys had dogs with the right fur, I don’t think I’d find it on the inside of a sock or a pair of briefs.”

“So let me get this straight, you’re saying that it’s as if dogs had been _wearing_ these clothes?”

Carlton nodded. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Is there any way this could be a fluke or accidental contamination?”

“I’ve pulled hairs from socks, underwear and the suit pants from both men. The placement of the hairs and the way they are embedded within the fabric is consistent with wearing – not contamination. Even if a dog had rolled in the clothes after they were discarded, it wouldn’t explain how fur got inside a sock.”

“You’ve got human material too, right?”

“Yeah, the short and curlies in the briefs – right next to and even embedded alongside the dog hairs – and skin flakes in the socks, consistent with human. We’ll need DNA samples for comparison, to make positive identification, but yeah – the clothes were worn by human beings too.”

Diana scrubbed at her face. “Is there any way you could be mistaken?”

Carlton grimaced. “Maybe with one piece of clothing. Maybe. But not with two socks, the underwear and the pants. I haven’t gotten to the shirts yet – both of those were torn. No. There is no mistake. Someone has fucked with your evidence – the clothing was on a dog, or two dogs. I’d stake my reputation on that.”


	4. THURSDAY MORNING

NEAL TRIED TO ROLL OVER. The morning light was coming at him from a strange angle and his bed was very uncomfortable. He had a terrible thought and didn’t want to open his eyes. Maybe everything had been a dream, and he was still in prison. He kept his eyes squeezed shut. Hopefully, Bobby wouldn’t come banging on the cell door to wake him up. As long as he didn’t open his eyes, he could dream for a few minutes more that he was a consultant for the FBI’s White Collar division, that he lived in a penthouse apartment with a thirty-million-dollar view. Then he recalled the rest of the dream. Kate was dead, Moz had nearly died and nothing else had ever been the same.

Neal opened his eyes, and closed them again. He shook his head and finally allowed himself to fully wake up. Everything was in shades of gray. And then he remembered. It wasn’t a dream, his life outside prison was not a dream. Kate really was dead, Mozzie had survived – and he and Peter were dogs.

A sound built up in his throat, an urgency that needed to be let loose. He lumbered to his feet. The cold ground had made his bones ache and his joints stiff, but he got up and howled. The cry was filled with all the grief and anger and fear that he could never show. He howled again and again, it felt so good to just _let it all go._

 _Neal! What’s wrong?_ Peter’s voice cut through his head like a knife and he fell silent.

 _I just...I don’t know what came over me._ He didn’t really. He understood the feelings, but this terrible lack of control was dismaying. He just gave into the dog-ness. Neal shivered, truly afraid.

Peter must have picked up on his anxiety, because he touched his muzzle to Neal’s ear and licked. _It will be all right. We’ll get home and it will be all right. Trust me._

Neal didn’t say anything, but licked Peter back. That didn’t feel strange at all. Peter was his pack, his alpha.

 _We’ve got to eat. I’m hungry and thirsty._ Peter actually sounded a little pitiful. Still commanding, but a little pitiful.

 _I know, so am I. Water’s that way._ Neal trotted down a slope and found them a small, burbling stream.

 _How do you do that?_

 _Don’t know, I just sense the water. Maybe the same way you can sense how to get us home. You haven’t led us to any point that’s insurmountable. No cliffs, no large lakes or mountains. Maybe this is how it’s meant to be, you’re the pathfinder and I keep us going. I’ll find the water, and I’ll find our food._ As Neal communicated, those words rang like bells inside him.

Peter gave him a look, one that seemed to transcend species. _That seems way too logical, too rational for something so illogical, irrational as this situation._

Neal licked the last swallow of water off his chops and gave the equivalent of a dog’s shrug. _Who’s to say?_ He took off first. _I’m hungry, let’s see about breakfast_.

Breakfast turned out to be two fat rabbits. The catching wasn’t hard at all, it was almost magically easy. The eating, however, was difficult. He and Peter gagged on the taste of the hot blood and the feel of the fur in their mouths, but they managed to keep the meat down. Neal tried not to think about the near silent scream of the creature as it died between his jaws. He gave the first one, the bigger one, to Peter and it took only a matter of minutes to kill the second one. Neal knew that he must never let Peter do the hunting; he felt a little bit of his humanity slide away when he killed. It wasn’t an evil thing he was doing, this was survival, but if one of them had to surrender to the dog-ness, it should be him. Peter needed to get home; he needed to get to Elizabeth. That would make everything all right again.

Peter wanted to drink again, to get rid of the taste of the rabbit, but Neal wouldn't let him.  Too much water would make them ill and bog them down in their journey. Neal could always find more, and so they forged on.

Once, in another lifetime, Neal had considered sled dog racing – not to actually participate, but whether it was something worth betting on (it was a thing with Matthew Keller). He made a small study of it and ultimately decided that there were too many variables: weather, trail conditions, the health and strength of the dogs, the skill of the musher. But one of the things he learned was that the dogs could cover over 120 miles a day with a fully loaded sled. So he figured that while he and Peter weren’t built for that kind of speed or stamina, they were probably three times the size of the sled dogs and had much better traveling conditions. By those calculations, they should cover, at a minimum, twenty-five miles today. That meant that by nightfall tomorrow, they should be approaching civilization.

When they drove out, they went through Port Jervis, which would be their entry point back into New York. Neal was thinking that it might even be possible to hitch a ride with a friendly trucker back to the city, but he didn’t want to pin his hopes on that. Port Jervis was a good hundred miles from Brooklyn, and it could be difficult traveling. In his head, going through the wilderness was much easier than navigating though civilization, with busy roads and careless drivers. They couldn’t always travel in a straight line. He trusted that Peter would get them home, but only if he kept Peter safe and well fed.

The rabbits that morning were a good start, and he kept his eye out for signs of similar creatures. He was big enough to take down a small deer, but the thought of that distressed him. Neal couldn’t help but feel that their transformation had to do with the deer they hit and Peter then killed. It wasn’t precisely the Acteon myth, but it seemed too close for comfort.

He could see Peter forging ahead, but a movement to his left caught his attention. A streak of black broke through the underbrush, a charging bear heading straight for Peter. Neal didn’t hesitate. He let out a sharp bark and a growl, and Peter stopped. Neal didn’t – he kept moving forward, to intercept the bear before it attacked Peter.

The impact from his collision with the bear nearly knocked him unconscious, but it also put the beast off of Peter’s tracks. Neal let his instincts take over and he went for the vulnerable underside of the bear’s throat. He didn’t want to kill or even wound the other animal, he just wanted to keep it from attacking Peter. The bear struggled and threw Neal off, but it didn’t run away. It – she – was focused on Neal, now, and she charged at him. Neal crouched low, and sprang away just before one of the bear’s massive paws swiped at him. He went in close and bit again and again at the bear’s throat and belly, the urge to protect Peter completely overtaking him. Neal must have hit something painful on the bear’s belly, because she pulled back, and then he realized what had happened. The bear was nursing, and her cubs must be nearby. He backed off, growling low in his throat, and he hoped that Peter had the sense not to interfere.

Neal finally turned and ran, Peter at his side, praying that the mother bear would be more interested in seeing to the safety of her offspring than in chasing them. They kept moving at a run for what seemed like a good ten minutes, then they slowed down to a trot and finally an exhausted walk. Neal dropped first.

 _What the HELL were you thinking, Caffrey?_

Peter was standing over him, hackles raised, and while Neal was able to clearly sense Peter’s anger, he couldn’t seem to understand his words. With an effort, he rolled onto his back and bared his throat to his alpha.

 _What are you doing, Neal?_

Again, Neal couldn’t seem to make sense of the words ringing inside his head. He tried to communicate back to Peter, but he couldn’t form sentences, just an impression of puzzlement at Peter’s anger.

 _???_

Peter lowered his nose to his face and Neal tensed, waiting for the punishment from his alpha. It never came; Peter brushed his snout against Neal’s muzzle, and Neal tentatively licked it. Peter sniffed around his face and Neal kept licking, a gesture of submission.

 _Neal, what’s wrong? Why won’t you talk to me?_

Peter licked him back, and it was all Neal could do but keep from wriggling in pleasure at his alpha’s forgiveness.

 _Neal, talk to me. Please, talk to me._

He tried, but the words wouldn’t come out. Everything was confused, his senses were overtaking his thoughts, and he couldn’t keep the one overriding question coherent in his brain. _Are You okay? Are You unhurt?_ Instead, he got up and sniffed Peter, looking for any sign of injury.

He could hear and almost understand Peter, but he could not reply.

 

AN HOUR AFTER MOZZIE INVADED NEAL’S APARTMENT AND OBTAINED CLOTHING FOR THE BLOODHOUNDS and material for a DNA sample, he and June arrived at the Burkes’ house. Elizabeth answered the door, weariness and despair clouding her face. In a completely uncharacteristic gesture, Mozzie went to Peter’s wife, to Neal’s friend, hugged her and whispered, “Remember the azaleas.” She held onto him tightly and Moz could feel how close she was to breaking down.

June didn’t say anything; she just went into the kitchen and put on water for tea.

They stayed with Elizabeth all night, talking only when she wanted to talk and keeping silent as she paced around the room, until she was about to pass out from exhaustion. June helped her up into bed, closed the draperies against the dawn light and left to go home and get some sleep herself. Moz stayed behind, walked and fed the Burkes’ rather stolid yellow Lab, and examined Peter and Elizabeth’s rather depressing selection of wine and surprisingly decent selection of literature. He helped himself to a copy of Dechanel’s _The Bones of Two Sisters_ and made himself at home on the living room couch.

Moz was worried, yes – but he wasn’t quite ready to panic. Not just yet.

About four hours later, he heard the upstairs shower go on, and then turn off, and he went into the kitchen to put on some tea. Fifteen minutes after that, Elizabeth Burke came downstairs, and he handed her a cup of strong and unsweetened Assam, which she gratefully consumed.

“Have you heard anything?”

Moz shook his head. “Not a word from any of the Suits. All I know is what the Old Gray Suit told us last night.”

Elizabeth had to smile at Moz’s description of Reese Hughes. “He told you that Neal and Peter disappeared in Pennsylvania yesterday afternoon – and that Neal’s tracker was locked and working?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think they were kidnapped?”

“I don’t know – I don’t think so.” Moz answered without thinking.

“Why?” Elizabeth’s voice had a note of rising panic in it.

“El...” He used the affectionate nickname that only the Suit used. “Nothing seems to make sense, from the little information we’ve been given. Neal’s enemies are behind bars – at least the ones with the juice to pull off a kidnapping. And from everything that Neal’s told me, Peter’s too good to leave loose ends. Besides, how many white collar criminals would resort to kidnapping?” Mozzie trailed off, because when he thought about that argument, he realized how ineffective it was.

Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice his wavering. “So, what do you think happened to my husband and Neal? Did they just rip off their clothes and run into the woods like wild animals?”

“I don’t know – I just don’t know.”

They sat on the couch, side by side in the silent room. Satchmo kept his head in Elizabeth’s lap, and she stroked his soft fur – a comfort to both woman and dog. Moz kept an eye on the clock and on the Lab’s rear end and tail, which was a fraction too close to his feet for comfort. It could have been hours, but it was more like minutes when the doorbell rang. Elizabeth dislodged the dog and went to the door. There was no hope there. If it were Peter, he’d just let himself in.

It was the Lady Suit, and Moz didn’t like the look on her face. She greeted Elizabeth and nodded in his general direction.

“Any news?”

Diana shook her head. “We’ve got a lab report on the clothing – both Peter’s and Neal’s. I’m about ten minutes ahead of the kidnapping and missing persons team. They’ll want to set up a command post.”

“Here?” Elizabeth got a wild-eyed look, as if she were panicked by the thought of a bunch of federal agents invading her home.

“They’ll connect into your landline, but no, they don’t have to stay here after the initial interview. They’ll work from a surveillance van, if you prefer. But before they get here, we need to go through this lab report.”

Moz hung back. His feelings for the Lady Suit were difficult, and as long as she remained focused on El, he could just observe.

“You too, Mozzie. I’ll need your input too.” Diana’s eyes were like dark, shark-infested waters.

Moz couldn’t help but shiver.

She cut right to the chase. “Have either Peter or Neal been around Irish wolfhounds lately – really close to one or two of them?”

Moz goggled at the Lady Suit. “The answer is unequivocally NO.”

Elizabeth confirmed that Peter hadn’t, either.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Mozzie demanded.

She handed him a copy of the lab report, and gave one to Elizabeth too.

Moz skimmed it, and then he read it again. “This is a little crazy.”

“Just a little?” El chimed in.

Diana had no answers for either of them.


	5. THURSDAY AFTERNOON AND EVENING

_NEAL?_ PETER LICKED NEAL’S NOSE, HIS MUZZLE, HIS EARS. He tried to communicate with him but all he could get was a jumble of images and sensations, the bear, food, sleep, worry, submission. There was almost no human consciousness in Neal – everything seemed overlaid with an animal sensibility. He kept pressing and finally, in frustration and fear, he bit Neal sharply on the shoulder.

Neal yelped. _What? What’s going on?_

 _Are you okay?_ Peter wanted to put his arms around Neal and hold him close. He was terrified that he was losing Neal, the essential, human Neal, to the dog.

 _I’m...okay. I think. Why did you bite me?_

 _I couldn’t reach you after you fought off the bear._

Neal sat and looked at Peter, a confused expression on his face. _But … biting me? That seems a little extreme._

Peter laughed, an audible bark, but a rueful sound in his head. _I didn’t know how else to reach you. You, the human Neal, not the dog._

 _I think I understand. But did you have to bite so hard?_

Peter laughed again, relieved. This was Neal, always with the small complaint. _Would you have rather stayed a dog?_

 _No, not really._ Neal got up and started sniffing around. _Water is this way._

He led them upslope, to another perfectly clear stream. As they drank their fill, Peter realized what the problem was: the more Neal acted on canine instincts, the more he seemed to lose his sense of self, his human self.

 _Neal?_

 _Yes?_

 _What’s the most truly human activity you can think of?_

Neal didn’t have to think too hard. _Hmmm, creating art, literature, music. What are you getting at?_

 _I’m worried about you, about me, too. We need to stay human._

 _You’ve noticed the problem too._

 _Yup._

 _I feel myself slipping every time I hunt. But we have to eat._

 _Yes, and I don’t think I could find food or water for us. But I can’t lose you._

 _You may have to. If it comes down to getting home or keeping me sane, you **have** to get home._

Peter didn’t want to think about what Neal was saying. He understood that Neal would sacrifice himself, but he knew that he couldn’t allow that to happen.

 _I have an idea._

 _What?_

 _Haiku._

 _Huh?_

 _Can you create haiku on the fly?_

 _Not really. I was never very good at writing poetry. I can’t do limericks either._

 _Damn._

 _But I know a lot of poetry._

Peter thought for a moment. _Poe?_

 _Yes, definitely._

 _The Raven?_ Peter began to recite, _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,_

 _Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore …_

Neal responded, _While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,_

 _As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door._

 _“Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door –_

 _Only this, and nothing more.”_

They began to run, ever eastward, Peter in the lead, Neal not far behind him, scanning the wood for any hidden dangers, or dangers not so hidden but completely missed by Peter in his quest to get them home.

And with each loping stride, they exchanged lines from The Raven, Peter pushing at Neal to remember and to recite.

Peter started the final stanza,

 _And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting_

 _On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;_

 _And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,_

And Neal finished, his voice echoing with strain and exhaustion in Peter’s head,

 _And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;_

 _And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor_

 _Shall be lifted - nevermore!_

Peter let him rest for a little while, he had to. They were both starving and Neal needed to hunt. Once again, he managed to catch and kill rabbits, this time four medium-sized bucks, and a pair of ground squirrels. Neal laid three of the rabbits in front of Peter and waited for him to start eating, watching him with wild, near-inhuman intensity. Peter knew that Neal was close to losing himself again, and as he ate the raw flesh, he felt something of his own humanity slip away. But they had no choice, not now, not yet. He urged Neal to eat, and when Neal pushed a fourth rabbit at him, Peter shoved it back.

 _You need to keep up your strength, too. Those squirrels didn’t look very big._

Neal’s response was again a jumble of confused sensations, tumbling out with no coherence. Peter didn’t want to bite him again, but he would if he had no choice. Before he did that, he tried pushing all his will into a command.

 _Neal, EAT._

Neal whimpered and fought a little.

Peter pushed again. _NEAL, do as I say. EAT NOW_.

Neal crawled over to the rabbit and tore at the soft body, eating as delicately as he could.

As he watched Neal eat, Peter wracked his brain for another poem, another song that he and Neal could use to keep themselves grounded in their humanity. Memories of Seders spent with Elizabeth’s family kept popping into his head, including ones that Neal had attended, and the song that everyone joined in on, at the end of the reading. It was always amusing to hear the adults try to keep going, particularly after four very large cups of wine.

When Neal had finished, leaving nothing but the skin and entrails, Peter pushed all his will into Neal with the next thought. Neal licked his chops and looked up, a mostly canine expression in his eyes.

Peter recited, _One little goat, one little goat..._

Neal didn’t respond.

 _Come on, Neal. You know the next line. Give it to me._

Peter waited and then pushed his will against Neal again. Thankfully, the confusion lifted and Neal seemed “Neal” again. _Give me the next line._

 _That my father bought for two zuzim...one little goat, one little goat._ Neal practically moaned in dismay. _Of all the songs or poems to pick, you choose Chad Gadya?_

 _It’s perfect, we can just feed each other the lines, without having to think **too** hard about it. Now, what’s the next line?_

 _It’s also strangely and somewhat ironically appropriate for our situation, don’t you think?_

 _Neal…_

 _Oh, all right._ Neal let out an all too human sigh of put-upon suffering. _Then came the cat that ate the goat my father bought for two zuzim._ Neal stopped, sat down and started to scratch himself. _You know, Peter…this is a little ridiculous._

Peter walked back to Neal, who was scratching a mile a minute. First his right ear, then he switched to his left. And then Neal twisted around to get a spot on his left shoulder.

 _Stop that._

 _Stop what?_

 _Scratching. You’ll hurt yourself._

 _But I’m itchy. Do you think I have fleas?_ The note of horror in Neal’s voice was almost too precious.

Peter stood over Neal and licked at his ears. _You don’t have fleas, okay? You are just enjoying being a dog a bit too much. Come on, before I bite you again._ When Neal started to scratch, Peter sat on him.

 _Ooof. Get off me. You weigh a ton._ Neal tried to dislodge Peter by standing up.

 _Are you going to keep scratching yourself?_

Neal reluctantly promised not to, and Peter got off of him. Neal stood up and wagged his tail. _Let’s get home. I want a bath._

Peter stood still for a moment, letting the map home reform itself. This time, it wasn’t as clear – there were missing parts – Peter couldn’t see the road he needed to take south and he only hoped that when they got closer to the Hudson River he’d be able to find the right way to go home.

But in any case, he still could see the path back into New York, and although he didn’t know how far they’d traveled over the past two days, he could sense that Port Jervis was only a few hours’ easy run.

He finally gave into the urge and nipped Neal’s hindquarters.

 _You bit my ass!_

 _Want to make something of it? Let’s get going._ Peter took off at an easy pace. _One little goat, one little goat._

Neal responded automatically, _Then came the dog that bit the cat…_

By the time the Holy One (Blessed Be He) slew the Angel of Death, it had started to rain, the forest had thinned out and Peter and Neal were utterly miserable.

 

IT HAD BEEN A FULL DAY SINCE HER HUSBAND VANISHED and Elizabeth thought she was going to go insane. Her rather un-stalwart companion, Mozzie, made himself scarce when the kidnapping and missing persons team arrived, with the U.S. Marshals right on their tails. She didn’t blame him. The FBI had tapped into her phone line, her fax line and both of her cell phones, and had set up a command post on her front doorstep. They were discreet, however, so as not to alert the neighbors, who might otherwise alert the media – which could result in Peter’s death. And Neal’s too.

These things, in and of themselves, weren’t what was making her crazy – it was the lack of information and the lack of respect.

First there was the round of questions from the FBI. Those weren’t so bad, at first. Agents kept asking her questions – about Peter’s old cases, if he were involved with anyone, if she knew anything about any strange calls or emails. Was Peter hiding anything from her? Then they wanted access to Peter’s financial records. They didn’t bother with excuses; they wanted to see if there were unusual transactions – money coming in, money going out. El was annoyed, but she understood.

But it was the U.S. Marshals Service that gave her the most grief. Its members were supposedly responsible for getting Neal back, but they had an axe to grind against Peter, too. He had taken down one of their own, exposing deep flaws in their office. So they began with insinuations about Neal. Initially, they asked about what she knew about his past, and then implied that Neal was still a criminal, despite his stellar record with the Bureau. They made subtle digs about the relationship between Peter and Neal, that they were something more than agent and CI. Elizabeth tried to explain that they were friends, but the men kept twisting her words around, making that friendship into something illicit, something dirty. When one of the agents suggested that maybe Peter and Neal had simply run off together, she clenched her fists and looked for anyone from her husband’s office. Someone to complain to, someone who could get these evil-minded bastards out of her living room and actually _looking_ for Peter and Neal.

She found Clinton in the backyard, arguing with a technician about the placement of a surveillance camera, which seemed to be pointing directly at her bedroom window. Jones saw her and gave the tech some sharp instructions. The man shifted the camera a little, to capture the utility path between her house and the apartment building next door. Peter’s agent let the tech finish up and came over to her.

“Mrs. Burke, are you holding up okay?”

“No, Clinton – I am not.” She told Jones about the questions she was getting from the men in her living room, and watched the face of this normally genial and easygoing man tighten in anger.

“Wait here, ma’am. I’ll take care of this.”

She declined to wait outside, but remained on the threshold of her patio, watching as Jones quietly and effectively put the fear of God into the two men who had just spent the better part of the morning insulting her, her husband and Neal. They left, but neither marshal bothered to apologize to her.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry for that. I’ll talk with Agent Hughes and have both of those assholes – excuse me – those sorry excuses for human beings reprimanded.”

“That’s all right, Clinton. Thank you. I just want Peter home, safe and sound. And Neal, too.” She crossed her arms over her chest and held herself tightly, as if to keep from falling apart. “I just want Peter back.” She whispered. “Please.”


	6. FRIDAY

NEAL DIDN’T REMEMBER EVER FEELING QUITE SO MISERABLE. Not even his first night in prison was this bad in his memory. He was cold and wet, hungry and tired. He wanted to hunt, but he was afraid. Peter was in as bad shape as he was, and Neal feared Peter would be unable to pull him back to some semblance of humanity if he killed anything tonight.

They had covered a lot of distance today, and this storm had caught them completely unaware. They didn’t consider looking for a cave, as bears were still too prevalent in the area and Neal had no desire to fight off another one. They found a deadfall and were about to take shelter under it when Peter discovered a wasps’ nest. The two of them backed off slowly, careful not to disturb the colony of insects. They tried to create a shelter from fallen branches, but it just kept falling apart. Finally, both of them simply collapsed from exhaustion.

Then the rain started to fall in blinding sheets. Neal nudged Peter and coaxed him to the highest, clearest ground they could find, so they wouldn’t drown in a flash flood. When the lightning started, they moved away from the tall trees and simply huddled together against the wind and the rain. Every once in a while they’d shift positions, first Peter tucking his head under Neal’s chin to keep his face out of the rain, then they’d swap, with Neal burrowing into Peter’s neck and shoulder. Neither of them slept, but they pretended to. It was simply too tiring to communicate.

The storm passed shortly before dawn, the third since they were transformed into dogs. The sun rose, bright and painful. Neal managed to get to his feet and shake off some of the water. Peter moved with equal slowness.

_You okay?_ Neal pressed his head against Peter’s wet and muddy neck, seeking comfort but nearly knocking him over.

_Yeah, I think so._

It took a while to walk off the stiffness, but at least they were able to warm up and dry out quickly. Neal found running water, which wasn’t hard given last night’s storm. They drank their fill, took care of business and slowly started on the seemingly endless journey eastward.

_How much further, do you think?_ Neal had hesitated to ask the question; Peter wasn’t really able to judge distances, just the route they needed to take.

_I don’t think we are too far from Port Jervis. I can feel it, it’s hard to explain. I know the Delaware River is in front of us, and that if we don’t hit Port Jervis, we’re going to have a lot of trouble getting across the water. After that, it’s going to be a long way back to the city. Probably another three days until we reach the Hudson._

It wasn’t hard to tell how worried Peter was. Neal tried to lighten the mood. _What are the odds that we’ll be able to get across the Tappan Zee Bridge without having to pay a toll?_

_You are a real wiseass, Caffrey._

Neal chose not to respond.

Peter wandered behind a tree to take care of business, and Neal was still amused by Peter’s modesty. He took care of his own needs and waited for Peter to return. They’d need water, and while he was hungry (and he was certain that Peter was too), hunting could wait for a few more hours.

It seemed like a long time and Peter hadn’t come back. He couldn’t see his friend’s furry back anywhere (Peter was a little big to just disappear), and Neal got nervous, but it didn’t take long to find Peter. He was splayed out behind a deadfall, licking his balls. Neal blinked. Peter looked like he was having the time of his life. A few thoughts occurred to him, foremost was that he could hold this over Peter for the rest of his life. _Remember the time in the forest, when I found you with your tongue wrapped around your testicles?_ He managed not to snicker as Peter kept going after them. Finally, bored and a little grossed out, he decided to intervene in this orgy of self-pleasure.

_Having fun?_

Peter’s response was vague, more than a little absent minded. _Hmmm_.

_Are they tasty?_ Neal’s tone was deliberately nonchalant.

_What?_ Peter apparently didn’t realize what he was doing. He just kept licking. And licking. And licking.

_Your balls. Do they taste good?_

Peter finally stopped, mid-lick. He lifted his head out of his crotch and looked up. The expression on his face was priceless – it was perfect canine shame. Unfortunately, Peter quickly recovered his poise.

_You tell anyone, and I mean anyone – Elizabeth, Mozzie, even Satchmo – I’ll have you sent back to prison so fast you wouldn’t even have time to say goodbye to your hat._

_Hmmm, as threats go, Peter, that one really doesn’t work. I’m thinking that when we get home, my radius should be expanded. Say five miles?_

_Neal, that threat would only work if people believed I had actually turned into a dog. And besides, your probation is almost done, does the extra distance really matter?_

Neal ignored that last point. _You know, it wouldn’t be too hard to convince people that you are very flexible._ Neal gave Peter his best doggie grin. _Come on, water’s this way. I’m sure you must be thirsty after all that … salt_.

_Caffrey…_

Neal trotted off, nose and tail high in the air. Peter followed. He was undeniably thirsty now.

The traveling was easy for most of the day. It was close to sunset when Neal found another stream. After drinking their fill, they picked their way down a rocky path. The forest was turning to scrub, and Neal gave thanks to whatever power or deity was watching over them. There was a steady rush of noise in the near distance, the sound of cars rolling on hard pavement. The vehicles were moving at a fairly high speed, which meant a highway

Peter looked back at Neal and smiled. The expression on his furry face was one of human triumph. Peter had done as he promised: they’d found Route 84, and as long as they kept moving eastward, parallel with this road, they’d reach Port Jervis and New York.

They kept traveling, the busy road always to their right. Occasionally, the trees opened up and they could see the road below them. After the near total silence of the forest during the past few days, the sound of cars and trucks rushing along was almost unbearably loud. It was late afternoon and the sun was getting low on the horizon.

_Neal...I hate to do this to you, but I think you’re going to have to hunt. I’m sorry, but I’m hungry and I don’t think I can go any further._ Peter’s tone was both apologetic and pleading.

Neal didn’t blink. As much as the idea distressed him, he knew that they both needed to eat, and soon. Although it had only been two and a half days since their transformation, he could see how much weight Peter had lost. His ribs were clearly visible under the rough coat.

_Will you be able to help me...afterwards._ Neal was worried. Peter sounded exhausted, ill. Neal felt helpless and, for the first time since this adventure began, downright angry. He wanted to bite something, rip it apart, and the intensity of that feeling, its utterly pointless violence, scared him.

_Yes, of course._ Peter swiped a long tongue against Neal’s chops and nose, and nuzzled at his neck. _We’ll be okay, we’ll both get home and we’ll be okay._

Maybe some of his skepticism leaked through, because Peter looked at him, eye to eye, and Neal couldn’t look away.

_You have to trust me in this. Please, Neal. I promise I’ll get us home safe._

_I know, Peter. I know you will._ Neal suddenly realized that if he didn’t have faith in Peter, Peter would not be able to get them home. His trust was essential and needed to be absolute. He couldn’t allow himself to doubt; if he did, they’d die, lost and alone. He knew this as surely as he knew the color of his own eyes.

It didn’t take much to catch and kill a few rabbits. It was harder to come back to himself after those kills, and even harder to eat them. When they bedded down for the night, Neal couldn’t fall asleep. He knew that something was going to have to change – he was going to have make a decision.

 

REESE HUGHES SAT ON THE BUMPER OF ONE OF THE UTILITY VEHICLES THAT THE SEARCH AND RESCUE TEAM HAD ARRIVED IN and reviewed the copy of the report that Agent Berrigan delivered from the forensics lab, reading it for the fifth or sixth time. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was anxiety, but it made even less sense now than it did the first time. He didn’t think he’d slept more than ten minutes in the last forty-eight hours. He’d been back to Pennsylvania twice to assist with the coordination of the search teams. Peter’s subordinates, Berrigan and Jones, had been invaluable. He liked Berrigan’s acute attention to detail and kept her with him. Jones’ quiet leadership abilities were put to use coordinating back in New York, working with the command post set up at Peter’s home.

Right now, his biggest frustration was the debacle with search and rescue. The dogs, bloodhounds, were worse than useless; they sniffed Neal and Peter’s clothing, put their noses to the ground once, then sat down and started baying. They wouldn’t move. The team brought in another group of scent hounds, and got the exact same reaction.

Berrigan suggested using a sample of the clothing that had been found at the scene, and they brought in the discarded socks from each man. It was hard to imagine the dogs having an even worse reaction, but one of the hounds took the scent and let out a cry like someone had stepped on her tail, and another ran back into its crate. The K-9 team leader had no explanations for her dogs’ behavior. Hughes sent the dogs back to their stations. A search team composed of FBI and Pennsylvania State Police explored the forest immediately adjoining the road, and helicopters coordinated with them from the air. But there was simply no sign of either man.

The likely scenario was that they were snatched after they left the car. But that didn’t explain the completely anomalous forensics. Not only was there dog fur inside of both men’s clothing, but Peter’s shoulder rig had been chewed apart by a dog. The forensics lab was able to determine the breed, Irish wolfhound. But the whole report was ridiculous in the extreme. Why would the assailants strip Burke and Caffrey, put their clothes onto two different dogs, let one of them chew on Burke’s leather shoulder holster, and leave everything strewn across the road? The fact that the men who took Peter and Neal had left Peter’s gun and badge behind made even less sense.

The worst thing was that there was simply no place to start looking. There was no sign of another vehicle on the road, no footprints, no discarded wrappers or trash. And why would the kidnappers know to wait here, at this point? How could anyone have staged the accident with the deer? That it happened just where they were lying in wait was simply an unacceptable coincidence.

And then there was the issue of Neal’s tracker. How in the hell had it been taken off?

It was close to sunset, and he could see that both the FBI and the State Police were ready to end the search for the day.

“Sir, what do you want to do?” The agent in charge of the search team was completely deferential to him.

Hughes sighed. “Shut it down.”

“For the night, sir?”

“No, for good. There is nothing here to find.” Hughes shook his head, hating to give up.

“I have to agree. There’s no sign that either man was taken into the forest. And the dogs…I’ve been doing this for almost two decades, and I’ve never seen tracking hounds behave like that.”

“Thank you, and please thank your team for me.”

“We tried our best.” The team leader was dejected; the loss of a fellow agent was weighing heavily on him.

Hughes waved Berrigan over. “We need to get back to New York. I’ve had the team back at the office going through all of Peter’s closed cases. Maybe there’s something in his files that will point us in the right direction, in ANY direction. The physical search here is a dead end. I want you and Jones to start going through ViCAP and looking for anything with a similar profile. If you need any help getting into anything, you come to me immediately.”

Berrigan nodded and left. He paced up and down the side of the road, grinding his teeth in frustration. Hughes paused and rolled his neck, trying to ease some of the tension, but he couldn’t shake the edginess. The dark forest bordering the road made him nervous and the last of the sunlight was fading. One of the State Police vehicles turned around, headlights cutting through the shadows eating across the road, momentarily turning the gravel into a bed of diamonds. Something in the road caught his eye – a bright circle of gold. He picked it up; it was almost too dark to see, but he didn’t need light to know what he’d found: Peter’s wedding ring.

He should bag it as evidence, or at least give it to Elizabeth. He did neither, instead tucking it into his jacket pocket. This was another part of the mystery, one he couldn’t begin to see how to solve.

 

ELIZABETH WAS A WRECK. SHE COULDN’T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME SHE MANAGED TO GET ANY DECENT SLEEP. Her dreams were repeatedly filled with nightmarish images of someone running, of someone being chased through a forest. Sometimes she thought it was Peter being chased, and then it seemed that Peter was the one doing the chasing. She always felt like she was looking out through someone’s eyes in these dreams. She would wake up with a start, the imagery still vivid, and it lingered behind her eyes for hours. After the second day, she didn’t want to go to sleep.

June had stayed with her since the first night, and over the following days became her rock, her anchor in this bewildering sea of pain and loneliness and loss. She never intruded, and certainly didn’t offer any false platitudes or banally tell her that everything would be “all right.” No, June was just _there_ , quietly organizing and coordinating and just getting things done.

Early that morning, when she came downstairs and sat in the dark living room, silently crying into Satchmo’s neck, June joined her. She just sat next to her on the couch, rubbing her back with a warm, motherly hand.

“Elizabeth, you can’t go on like this.”

She looked up at the older woman. “What?”

“You need to sleep. You need to get some rest.”

“I – I can’t sleep. I have nightmares.”

“About Peter?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. They make no sense.” She didn’t want to talk about them and was grateful that June didn’t press her.

They sat on the couch, saying nothing until she broke the nearly unbearable silence.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know.” June was calm, but there was nothing comforting in her words.

“I always thought that I’d know if Peter …” Elizabeth’s voice hitched over his name. “If Peter were badly injured or killed. Not like a psychic connection, but just that I’d _know_. But I feel nothing. No different.”

“For some people, it’s easier to keep hoping.”

“At this point, it seems so foolish, like false hope, fool’s gold. They disappeared without a trace, without reason. There are no real clues and we’re never going to know what happened.” She couldn’t hide the despair, the hopelessness, any longer. “My mother warned me that I’d always have to live in fear if I married a cop. That someday, someone was going to turn up on my doorstep with bad news.”

June didn’t say anything, she just let her ramble.

“But I told her that Peter’s not a cop – not _just_ a cop. He’s FBI and White Collar isn’t dangerous – I mean, come on, when was the last time someone was murdered for mortgage or stock fraud?”

June knew better, but there was no point in telling Elizabeth. Besides, Peter’s wife understood just how dangerous his job really was; it was the shock and fear making her retreat into false naiveté.

Elizabeth just sat there, rocking herself, staring into the darkness, tears streaming down her face. She kept whispering, “What am I going to do without him? What am I going to do?” 

 


	7. SATURDAY MORNING

EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, DIANA STALKED HIM LIKE A DEER HUNTER – it was amazing how stealthy she could be in four inch heels. She found him holed up in the luncheonette three blocks from the Burkes’ house. He was nursing a cup of tea and trying to read the newspaper. Or at least hiding behind the newspaper.

When she slid into his booth, Moz almost had a heart attack. On top of all his worry about Neal and the Suit, to have his beautiful monster voluntarily seek him out was an almost unbearable thrill. He dropped the paper and stared at her.

She dropped a file on top of his paper and stared back. All she said was, “You never read this.”

Before Moz gingerly opened the folder, he donned a pair of nitrile gloves (he was allergic to latex as well as lactose); he didn't want to leave any fingerprints on a federal document. It wasn’t the same thing he had seen yesterday. This file contained the final lab reports about the evidence found at the site. Moz read all of it, and then read it again. And again.

“Okay...this is a little crazy.” Moz tried to keep an even tone. He didn’t want to frighten the monster: she’d eat him alive.

“Yeah, I know it is.” Diana grimaced and waved off the hovering waitress.

“There was wolfhound fur and DNA _inside_ their clothing? Inside their underwear?” He couldn’t help it; his voice reached nearly inaudible heights.

Diana shushed him. “And it wasn’t the same animal. Peter’s clothing had brindle and Neal’s had gray fur – there was no crossover of fur or dander inside the clothing. The DNA tests confirm that there were two dogs, one for each man. There was no cross-contamination of dog fur or DNA between their clothes.”

Moz flipped back through the report and reread that section. He looked up and just shook his head.

Diana continued. “And the holster? I can’t even begin to imagine what they did to Neal to get those results.”

“Both Neal and the dog left saliva on the holster. What is the point of that?”

“I don’t know.” Diana scrubbed at her eyes. “I just don’t know. We haven’t received a ransom demand, there is no physical evidence of another vehicle on that road. Nothing makes sense. Jones and I have been poring through Peter’s old case files, and we can’t find a single perp who has enough juice to make something like this happen.”

Moz gave Diana the same answer he gave the Old Gray Suit four nights ago. “Neal’s enemies, those who could pull something like this off, would never go after him when he’s with the Suit. They’d go for him when he’s alone, vulnerable. That tracker does more than report his whereabouts to you busybodies, it protects him too.”

A strange expression crossed Diana’s face, and Moz pounced on it. “What about the tracker? The Suit’s boss told me that the tracker was found at the site, locked and working.”

Diana shook her head. “The EMU re-ran the tracker’s data stream, and there was a seven-second anomaly. The tracker didn’t go offline, but the data was not verifiable. The car’s GPS doesn’t transmit data in a continuous stream, so we don’t know if the anomaly was limited to the tracker’s unit.”

“Sunspots?”

“We checked, there was no increased activity, according to NASA.”

“Seven seconds is more than long enough to unlock and relock the anklet.” Moz muttered.

Diana took hold of one of Mozzie’s hands. He shivered, telling himself, “fear, not desire”. “Moz – do you know of any way that the tracker could be removed without a key? We need that information.” She stared into his eyes, as if to mesmerize him. “It could mean the difference in Neal’s life or death.”

Moz held his breath. The thought of giving up such secrets to the Man (and particularly to his beautiful monster) nauseated him. But it was for Neal, and there was almost nothing he wouldn’t do for his friend.

“There may be a way...” He paused, and his natural reticence tried to take over.

“Mozzie, please.” Diana begged.

It was the “please” that pushed him over the edge. “It’s only a theory – neither of us wanted to test it.”

“Why?”

Mozzie muttered, “Too dangerous.”

“What’s the theory?”

“That a sustained application of high voltage electricity to the anklet could interrupt the locking mechanism.”

“I could see why Neal would be reluctant to try that.”

Moz grimaced. “It’s possible whoever took them got the tracker off Neal like that – and it would produce an anomaly. But if they broke his foot to remove it...” He didn’t want to complete that thought.

“We checked with the manufacturer: even if Neal’s ankle was dislocated, they couldn’t remove it. The cuff is designed so that his foot would have to be crushed or need to be amputated to remove it.”

Diana meant that information to be reassuring, Moz supposed. And he supposed it was, since they found no blood.

“What do you think about the deer?”

“Huh?” Diana’s swift change of topic caught Mozzie off guard.

“The deer that the car hit.”

Moz flipped back through the file and reread the section. “A Persian Fallow Deer? That doesn’t sound like it’s a species native to northeastern Pennsylvania.”

Diana shook her head again. “It’s not. There are no Persian Fallow Deer in North America – none at all, not even in any zoos or conservation centers. There are less than one thousand of them in the wild – all in the Middle East and southern Eurasia.”

Moz was silent. He looked through the reports again, even though it was unnecessary. He had a photographic memory. He took a sip of his tea and swallowed heavily. He knew he was irritating Diana (a perverse pleasure), but he took his time and folded his newspaper precisely, realigned everything on the table – including the report folder – and then took another sip of tea. It was nerves – because what he was about to suggest was so far off the wall as to warrant him a one-way ticket to Bellevue.

“You know the saying, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains ...”

Diana finished the quotation “... however improbable, must be the truth?” Yes, yes – Sherlock Holmes. I read ‘The Sign of the Four’ when I was twelve. What are you getting at?”

“I am a man of science – you know that.” Diana nodded in agreement (or at least pretended agreement). Moz paused, took yet another sip of tea. It was cold now, and he made a face at the cup. “But sometimes, science may not have all the answers.”

“What are you saying?”

Moz licked his lips and continued. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Hamlet, Act One, Scene Five. Stop taking refuge in quotations, Mozzie.”

“Okay, okay, this is just going to sound completely crazy – but what if Neal and Peter were transformed into dogs.” That last bit came out in a rush.

Diana didn’t say anything.

“Look, there is no other explanation that makes any sort of sense. It would explain the dog fur and dander inside their clothing, the combined DNA on the chewed off part of the Suit’s holster, the fact that there were no tire tracks for another vehicle, no sign of any other humans. How Neal’s tracker got off and why Peter’s gun and badge were left behind.”

Diana didn’t run shrieking out of the restaurant. She did bite at her lips, though. “That’s impossible, not improbable. You know that.”

Moz briefly closed his eyes and sighed. “Yeah, I know. But it explains _everything_.

Diana reached into her bag and pulled out another folder. “You haven’t seen this one either.” She opened up the file to the picture of Neal’s shoe, the tracker, and his sock – all together, as if the foot that was once inside that shoe, wearing the tracker and that sock, had simply dematerialized.

Moz opened his mouth to say something, then closed it with a snap, finally remembering that he was in a place full of ears.

His monster seemed to pick up his thoughts. “I don’t think our government has any such program that could do what you just suggested.”

“You don’t think, but you don’t know for certain.”

She just nodded.

“This solution has crossed your mind too.”

“I also read Edith Hamilton when I was twelve. I was very disappointed to learn that none of those stories were real.”

“I suppose you’re thinking of Artemis – how appropriate.”

She grinned at him. “I _was_ particularly fond of the story of Actaeon.”

“You would be.” Moz snorted.

“For a number of reasons, all of them fairly obvious.”

“Well, if you add in the Persian Fallow Deer...it makes a twisted sort of sense...if you believed in this type of craziness.”

“But being a man of science...”

“I am also a romantic.” Moz leaned back against the booth and gave her his best and sweetest smile. Then he grimaced and shook his head. “Nah. Not even improbable.”

“Nope. Not even.” Diana gave him an intimate little smile. She picked up both folders and tucked them back into her bag. And then, to Mozzie’s surprise, bent down, took them out again and left them on the floor under the table.

“I’m heading back to the Burkes’, to see if anything has developed. Want to come with me?”

Moz declined. “I’m going to sit here and think a bit. There are other possibilities.” He shifted and put his foot over the files.

“There are?”

“There has to be. Because what I’ve suggested is just not possible.”

“Okay – keep me abreast of anything you think of.” She tossed him a business card with her cell phone number on it and left.

Moz carefully ran his fingers over the card stock. It was government issue, and certainly not the finest. He probably shouldn’t keep it; it could have trackers or hallucinogens in the ink, but he couldn’t help himself. He tucked it into his wallet, into a carefully hidden place, where it wouldn’t fray or get damaged.

The waitress came back with a fresh tea bag and hot water. As the tea steeped, Moz tried to come up with truly logical explanations for Neal and Peter’s disappearance, but his thoughts kept focusing on a pair of dark and dangerous eyes.

 

PETER DIDN’T KNOW WHAT WAS WORSE, THE HUNGER OR THE GUILT. He knew that each time he sent Neal out to hunt, and each time Neal had to kill something, he lost a little more humanity. He was using Neal to try and stay alive, hoping that once they got home, they’d become human again. But what if he couldn’t bring Neal back to himself? If he lost him to the dog’s instinctive drive to survive, could Neal ever become human again?

For the first time in days, Peter allowed himself to really think about Elizabeth. Although she was his lodestone, his magnetic north, he had tried to keep her out of his conscious thoughts. He knew that she must be worried, terrified that he was missing. What had they told her? And when?

Peter had only decided to take the trip out to Sylvania Lake to interview Constantine Velton about 8 o’clock the evening before. Everything was very much last minute. It was likely that no one would have realized they were missing until the next day. He tried to remember El’s schedule, and he wasn’t certain that she was going to be in New York. Regardless, she must know by now that he was missing. And if she knew, and the FBI was searching for them, he could just imagine what she must be going through now. There was no logical explanation for their disappearance. He had a dim memory of their clothing scattered across the unpaved road, the dead deer and the damaged car. What did they tell Elizabeth? He wondered and worried about his wife.

He could picture her face, her bright eyes and long dark hair. That brilliant smile and the way she cocked her head when she was listening to him. But he couldn’t hear her voice, or recreate the sound of his name when she spoke it. He started to panic – suddenly he couldn’t even remember his name, who he was and why he was here. He could remember that his wife – Elizabeth – had blue eyes, but he didn’t know what “blue” meant. He tried to remember the details of his life, his home: the number of steps up to his front door, how many chairs at the dining table, his telephone numbers, and his ZIP code. This information came back slowly and it was full of gaps; he knew his cell phone number, but not his landline. He could picture the steps from the street to the front door, but he wasn’t sure if there were six or eight of them. He remembered that the house had three stories, plus a basement apartment and storage area, but not the number of rooms on each floor.

The panic started to recede and he tried to reground himself. If poetry worked for Neal, maybe math would work for him. He counted backwards from one hundred by sevens, which was too easy. He calculated pi to the twentieth place and multiplied the result by the square root of a random six-digit number. He flopped to the ground, panting and worn out, too hungry and too tired to do anymore calculations. But at least he remembered his name.

Peter tried to ignore the hunger pangs, the sick and weak feeling, and the shakiness in his legs. They had been subsisting on rabbits for three days, and each time Neal killed one, Peter could feel the bonds between them weaken. He thought about Satchmo, and the high calorie diet they fed him (and supplemented by the one he took for himself). When the Lab got regular exercise, which meant when Peter regularly jogged, Satch was lean and nicely muscled. When Peter was forced to work out at the gym in the winter, or when work kept him too busy, his dog quickly plumped up. He and Neal were twice Satchmo’s size and they were eating the bare minimum, but were burning infinitely more calories. This morning, Peter realized that they were covering less distance, but traveling longer. It was going to come to a point very soon that they wouldn’t be able to travel at all.

Maybe when they got to civilization, they’d be able to forage for food. Restaurants disposed of uneaten food all the time, and they were big enough to get into a Dumpster – or maybe Neal could don his friendliest con artist’s face and beg. Except that they were huge animals, and he didn’t think that people would be inclined to approach two dirty dogs, each bigger than a compact car, no matter how friendly they appeared. Peter shook his head and told himself to stop being so self-defeating.

He wondered how much longer Neal was going to be. He was so hungry.


	8. SATURDAY AFTERNOON - EVENING

NEAL TRIED TO ORIENT HIMSELF, KEEPING THE SOUND OF THE ROAD BEHIND HIM. He had difficulty maintaining that position and he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to find Peter again. And if he couldn’t bring food back to him, they were both lost. Of the two of them, Neal thought that Peter was deteriorating faster than he was. He was stopping for rest breaks more frequently and when he begged Neal to hunt, he sounded on the verge of collapse. Neal knew that the rabbits weren’t enough; he thought about trying for fish, but that seemed impossible. He worried about raccoons; they could be rabid. Maybe if he could find a nesting goose or two… He licked his chops at the thought of eggs and all that protein.

Out of the corner of his eye, Neal saw a flash of pale brown and white – a rabbit. He dove after it and his jaws snapped on air. Neal sat down, appalled. For the first time since his transformation, he had missed his prey. Another rabbit popped up out of its den, and Neal went after it. He missed again and started digging desperately at the rain-softened soil. In his fury, he excavated a hole big enough to hide in, but he stopped digging. He knew he couldn’t afford to expend any extra energy, but he couldn’t give up.

Neal lay there, panting, worrying, and suddenly the forest grew still. A doe with a yearling fawn walked into view, seemingly oblivious to him. He thought how easy it would be to take down the fawn, or even the doe. That would mean meat, lots of rich real meat, and even milk, as she was obviously nursing. He could take her back to Peter (and he could now exactly pinpoint where Peter was) and Peter would be saved. But the idea of killing this beautiful, gentle creature, this mother, was terrifying. He’d be leaving the fawn helpless; it would quickly starve. And then he thought about the penalty for this kill. The rabbits, small simple creatures, had cost him plenty. Taking the life of the doe would likely take everything he had left of himself, and no amount of poetry, no songs, no gentle licks or sharp nips would ever bring him back to himself.

Maybe it was for the best. If he were fully a dog, with a canine’s sensibilities and lack of human morals, he could hunt for Peter at will. It would no longer be a reluctant act for the barest survival, but one that was instinctual, blameless. The thought crossed his mind that if they got home, Peter would always take care of him, and Satchmo would be good company. He just hoped that Peter wouldn’t have him neutered. If Peter died because Neal couldn’t care for him, he’d die too, lost and alone. He might as well wander onto the road and let himself get hit by a car, to make the end quicker.

The window for this decision was closing quickly. The deer, which had stopped to browse, were now within two feet of him. Neal weighed the options and realized that he had none left. _This is for Peter. For Peter. For Peter._ That was the last conscious human thought Neal would have.

He sprang out of the shallow hole he had dug, landing right on top of the doe. Neal broke her neck with one bite of his powerful jaws. The fawn, frozen and helpless, died with even less effort.

Neal sat between his kills, panting and triumphant.

 

PETER KNEW THE MOMENT THAT NEAL MADE THE KILL, EXCEPT THAT HE THOUGHT NEAL WAS DEAD. He had simply disappeared from Peter’s consciousness. The place where their minds connected was empty. This was different from when Neal had killed the rabbits or fought the bear. Those times, Peter could reach out and find confusion, instinct and a very small bit of “Caffrey-ness”. Now there was nothing. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, to think, to act.

His heart hurt from both the surge of grief and the sudden and total emptiness. Neal was gone – his best friend, his partner, one of only two people who really knew him, who understood him, and he was gone. He wanted to howl like Neal had done that first morning after their metamorphosis. He watched clouds scuttle across the sky, briefly blotting out the sun, and his eyes burned. He was a dog and couldn’t cry.

It seemed like hours that he lay there, stricken and unmoving, until he heard a sound from behind him. Something was coming through the undergrowth. Peter turned around and crouched low, hiding behind a fallen log. It sounded like something was being dragged. He waited for endless moments, until a large dark dog, pulling along the carcass of a deer, broke through the mass of ferns that carpeted the forest floor.

 _NEAL!_ Peter was overjoyed, Neal was alive. He licked at his face, nipped his ear, but there was no response from him, and he wouldn’t look at him directly. He kept his head down and he panted and wagged his tail. Neal was all dog now as he barked at Peter, seemingly proud of his kill and happy to be able to offer it to his alpha. Or at least that’s how Peter interpreted his behavior. Peter reached out to find that spark of Neal Caffrey, but there was nothing there.

Neal barked at him again, and pushed at the deer carcass. Peter’s mouth actually watered. In that moment, he understood what Neal had done; he’d surrendered his humanity for Peter’s survival. Nausea and horror warred with his hunger, but hunger won. He bent down to bite into the haunch and Neal stopped him. Peter instinctively drew back, ready to discipline the dog, until Neal nosed at the full udder with the engorged teats. Neal wanted him to have this and Peter recoiled, disgusted by the idea of taking milk from the dead animal. Then he looked at Neal, into eyes vacant of any human personality. Neal had sacrificed himself for him, for this – so that he could survive.

Once upon a time, Peter would have thought that Neal’s act was self-serving, that he needed Peter to stay healthy so they could get home. But not now. Now he believed with every bit of his soul that Neal was motivated by his own regard for Peter, and not for the end result. He was humbled and shamed and honored.

Putting aside his disgust and respecting Neal’s gift, Peter crouched down between the doe’s legs and nosed at the udder. He licked at the teat, tasting the dried milk, and tried to suckle. His pointed snout, with its sharp teeth and short dewlaps, wasn’t made for sucking, but Peter was infinitely conscious of Neal sitting there, panting, waiting. He kept at it until the milk came, warm and rich. He tried not to think about what he was doing, but as he swallowed, he felt his strength return, his thoughts became clearer and the dangerously fading path home was once again a burning bright arrow. He finished the milk, lifted his head and wished he could cry. Neal sat there, perfectly happy in his doggy oblivion.

As satisfying as the milk was, Peter was still hungry and he quickly tore into the deer’s soft underbelly and gorged until he could eat no more. He stepped back to let Neal eat, but he took off. Before puzzlement turned to worry, he returned with a smaller carcass – the fawn that had been nursing. Peter spared a moment’s prayer for the young animal and watched as Neal began to eat.

Peter decided that they wouldn’t travel any further today. They had food and they needed to rest. One more day wouldn’t make a difference.

They lazed in the sunshine like dogs. Neal ate, found them water, and slept. Peter did much the same, although he didn’t sleep. He paced and watched Neal, tried to work a way into Neal’s consciousness, but all he found was an empty void. Neal woke around midday and bounded over to him. He licked Peter’s face and nuzzled at his chin, then fetched a short stick. He dropped it at Peter’s feet, and assumed the typical canine “play” position, crouching low on his forelegs and lifting his hindquarters high, tail wagging as an enticement to join the game. Peter’s heart broke all over again.

 

EVEN THOUGH IT WAS SATURDAY AFTERNOON, THE CONFERENCE ROOM ON THE TWENTY-FIRST FLOOR WAS PACKED. Hughes sat at the head of the table. William Crawley, the head of the U.S. Marshals Service in New York City, was seated at the other end. Agents and marshals were arrayed on either side of the table and the arguing had gotten so loud that the glass walls were shaking.

For a good half hour, he watched as his agents and the Marshals exchanged ever more heated insults. Hughes toyed with the wedding band in his pocket and let his people blow off some steam, but finally he got fed up with the arguing. Hughes stood up and spoke. Although his voice was pitched low, it cut through the shouting like a knife.

“Settle down. This solves nothing. There are two people missing, a federal agent and a valued employee of this department.”

Several of the Marshals made derogatory noises at that last comment. Hughes addressed them head on.

“Marshals, do you have a problem?”

Crawley, who had remained seemingly neutral during the earlier, heated discussion, answered for his team. “Caffrey’s a felon who’s conned a really cushy deal out of you. He’s managed to get out of his tracker, for what – the fifth, sixth time? He’s a menace to the Service and to society. We have every right to put a shoot-on-sight order out on him.”

The FBI side of the room erupted in anger. Hughes quickly regained control. “Crawley, there is no reason to believe that Caffrey was responsible for Agent Burke’s disappearance or his own. The Marshals Service does not have any right at this point to give that order, particularly since Caffrey has no history of violent behavior.” Hughes hoped that no one in the Marshals Service had heard about Neal’s adventure with the stolen gun and Garrett Fowler. “In fact, your office has a lot to answer for. Your supposedly unbreakable, unhackable tracking anklet was unlocked without a key. Your system was supposed to alert this office when the GPS was stationary within a one-yard radius for more than fifteen minutes, but no such alert was issued.”

Crawley interrupted him. “A message was sent to his handler.”

Hughes was getting fed up with this in-fighting. If the Marshals weren’t going to help, they were going to get pushed aside. “So you say, but there’s no record of that message, and besides, Caffrey was _with_ his handler. Your own established protocols required you to send a follow-up alert to his supervisor – that would be me – and to his designated subordinates when the first alert was not acknowledged. Those messages were not sent.”

Crawley leaned over to one of his staff and muttered something behind his hand, as if he were afraid that someone would read his lips.

Berrigan and Jones came into the conference room. Berrigan handed him a report; Jones caught his eye, nodded and patted his suit coat. Hughes scanned the report and prepared himself for what was bound to be another furious argument.

Before he could speak, Crawley started in again and he just let him go on and on. When the Marshal finally seemed to run out of words, when he finally realized that no one from the FBI was listening to him, he shut his mouth with a snap.

“Marshal Crawley, the FBI understands and appreciates your position…”

Crawley narrowed his eyes at him. Hughes knew his words lacked sincerity, but he was out of patience, and Peter and Neal were running out of time.

“You should take a look at the new forensic evidence that has just been brought to my attention, evidence that has significant bearing on the removal of Caffrey’s tracking anklet.” He gestured and Agent Berrigan handed the Marshal a copy of the file she had just given to him.

He read it and tossed the file back at the FBI agents. “What the hell is this?”

“Proof that the tracking anklet can be unlocked without a key. We had the lab run some fairly simple tests. It seems that a sustained discharge from a high current/high voltage electroshock weapon will momentarily reverse the polarity of the magnetic lock on the anklet. Because the GPS is well insulated, the shock wouldn’t completely disrupt the data stream. Fortunately for the Marshals Service, the amount of voltage and the current level needed to release the lock would result in severe injury or even death to the wearer.”

Hughes paused for effect. “You know there was a seven-second anomaly in Caffrey’s tracking data. And the test shows...” Hughes looked down at the report, “...that a seven-second sustained application of a high voltage electroshock weapon disrupts the magnetic lock without substantially interfering with the flow of data from the GPS radio to the satellite and back to the EMU.”

Crawley said nothing, he obviously knew that it would be impossible to self-administer a shock of that voltage or duration. The rest of his team gave him troubled looks.

Hughes tried not to sound smug, considering the gravity of the situation. “I think this completely changes the scenario. It is now quite plausible that another vehicle trailed Burke and Caffrey to the remote location, assaulted, disabled and took them. I know this doesn’t explain the other forensics – but it’s been more than three days since Burke and Caffrey went missing and we still need a plausible starting point for our search.”

Hughes motioned to Jones. “Sir, this is the court order you requested. Judge Holloway sends his regards.” The younger agent handed the blue-backed document to him. He opened it, noted the contents and handed it back to Jones, who gave it to Crawley.

The Marshal looked like he smelled something truly disgusting. “Bravo, bravo. You’ve managed to get a federal judge to authorize your complete disregard for inter-agency jurisdictional boundaries.” Crawley got to his feet. “Come on, guys – we’re no longer needed here. It seems that some asshole in a black robe has signed off on an order giving the FBI complete control over the recovery of their pet felon.”

The Marshals exited the conference room in a collective huff, and Hughes allowed himself a small smile.

Hughes turned to Peter’s former probie. “How did you even think to have these tests run?” When she didn’t immediately answer, he closed his eyes in exasperation. “I really don’t want to know, do I?”

“Let’s just say that the CI has his own very highly skilled and extremely _difficult_ informant. He’s been effective before.”

Jones asked, “The little guy?”

“Yeah. He had some interesting ideas, and this one seemed to be worth looking into.”

Hughes knew all about “Dante Havisham” – a man with many aliases and every reason to avoid close contact with the FBI.

The White Collar division and a team from Kidnapping and Missing Persons worked through the day, compiling lists of manufacturers and dealers of electroshock weapons, getting down to the component level. No one was shy about waking up presidents and CEOs to get sales data. They struck gold when Eric Whitman, a known associate of Ryan Wilkes, turned up on shipping documents from three of the parts manufacturers over the last four months. The lab geeks were able to confirm that the ordered parts would be key elements of a very high voltage electroshock device, one powerful enough to unlock the anklet and seriously incapacitate anyone wearing it.

Although the parts were shipped to an address in Red Hook, Agent Blake discovered that this known associate had a grandmother living in Matamoras, Pennsylvania, at the eastern edge of Pike County, and everyone scrambled. Even Hughes, not normally one to let emotions overrule common sense, was certain that they would find Peter and Neal by the end of the day. He didn’t let himself consider whether they would be living or dead.

It was a joint operation between the Pennsylvania State Police, local law enforcement and the FBI. Nearly two dozen agents and officers poured into Delores Whitman’s home before dawn Sunday morning. They found nothing. No sign of Peter or Neal – just a very frightened elderly lady who hadn’t seen her grandson since he was a baby.

For the first time since his youngest daughter stopped talking to him and then disappeared without a trace, Reese Hughes wanted to cry.

 

PETER WOKE NEAL AS AN ALMOST-FULL MOON WAS AT ITS ZENITH. He was confident that they could get through Port Jervis and into New York before sunrise. Traveling at night had its risks, but he felt strong – as strong as he had when this nightmare started. The path in his head was bright and clear, and for the first time, he understood time and distances.

Neal was reluctant to rise; he kept burying his nose under his tail and Peter had to nip him to get him up. The dog’s eyes were full of hurt at the seemingly unwarranted discipline. Peter understood – it was night, after all, not a time that a dog should be up and about. But once they got going, Neal kept to the pace that he set. They were making progress, but Peter had never felt as alone as he did that night. He could hear Neal behind him, but the loneliness was indescribable. To know that Neal was with him, but completely _absent,_ was terrifying.

As they trotted along, the highway forked and Peter had to make a choice. Stay on close to Interstate 84, and they’d have to cross the Delaware using the large and busy double-span bridge, about a half-mile long. Go to the north, about five miles out of the way and they could take the shorter, less trafficked local bridge from Matamoras into the heart of Port Jervis. They’d then have to find their way south, back to 84, which meant navigating through city and suburban streets. The arrow in his head pointed him to the local bridge. His gut confirmed that decision and they headed north.

The path Peter took them on skirted the busier streets of Matamoras, cutting through undeveloped areas until they reached the roadway that ran along the edge of the Delaware River. The bridge into Port Jervis was an open decked roadway, and difficult for them to walk on, but it was thankfully short. With the first paw back on solid ground, something chimed within him: they were back in New York, and getting home was more than just a possibility.

Peter thought about trying to find a local business, maybe a restaurant with outdoor seating where they could filch some food, but given the amount of traffic, it seemed very late for anything to be open. His internal compass was pulling him south now, back to the Interstate. He checked behind him.

Neal wasn’t there.

Peter panicked; he couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had last seen Neal. Was it before or after the bridge? Was Neal behind him in Matamoras? Or had he lost him when they swung north to avoid the Interstate? Peter started back when a pair of eyes glowed out of the darkness.

 _Neal?_ There was no answer, of course, but it was Neal. Peter sniffed around him...it seemed that his friend had taken himself off for an extended session of marking trees and cars and hydrants. Neal sat down in front of Peter, head low. Peter’s balls began to itch and he wanted to go and re-mark every one of those trees and cars and hydrants. He fought the sensation, gave Neal a nip to the shoulder and another on his butt and continued southbound. This time he constantly looked over his shoulder to make certain Neal was there.

They crossed under the highway and kept the road to their left now. Peter was exhausted by the time the moon set, and it was too dark to travel any further. He was not in the same desperate way he had been two nights ago, before the storm, but tired enough. He stopped and licked his chops, hoping that Neal would understand that he was thirsty. He did, and led them to a small stream a few hundred yards away from the roadway.

They took shelter under a stand of pines. Peter watched as Neal circled around himself a few times before lying down, nose under his tail. Peter stretched out behind him, resting his head on Neal’s hindquarters, needing the warmth of direct contact to calm him down, so he could sleep. The bed of fallen needles was surprisingly comfortable, and Peter finally dozed off. His breath in sync with Neal’s, his last thought was, _Tomorrow has to be better._


	9. SUNDAY MORNING

EDUARDO MONTOYA DOUBLE CHECKED THE ADDRESS HIS SISTER HAD GIVEN HIM. Her fiancé’s family’s “summer cottage” was in a place called Ridgebury. It was a two hour drive from his home in Brooklyn and light-years away from the working class neighborhood where he raised her after their parents died. His truck made an obscene amount of noise on the peaceful, tree-lined street. Everything about this area screamed money, old money, and lots of it, and he didn’t like it. But Constanza was always a girl looking to have more, to have better, and he always nurtured that ambition.

In the mid-1970s, his parents had moved them out of the barrio into an area of Brooklyn populated mostly by Italians and Eastern Europeans. His papa called it a real “Archie Bunker” neighborhood, and it took years before they stopped feeling like interlopers in their own home. But by the time that Connie was born, with her strawberry blonde hair and light eyes – and the spitting image of his papa’s own _abuela_ – they were pretty much accepted by everyone.

His papa worked like a dog to provide for his wife and two children. Just as he pushed his family into a strange neighborhood where no one spoke Spanish, he became a business owner in a “field” where his kind of people were the laborers, not the bosses. But then his wife died, and something died within him too.

When Eduardo was eighteen and about to start college, his father dropped dead of a heart attack. There was a little insurance, but not enough – certainly not enough to see him through four years of college and take care of nine-year-old Connie too. He could have gotten loans and dumped his sister on the family that still lived in the barrio. But he wouldn’t do that – he wouldn’t condemn his baby sister to a life of resentment and poverty (because that’s what his relatives in Washington Heights were all about).

He graduated high school, sent a polite letter to Fordham University declining their offer of admission, and took over his father’s business. He went to night school and learned basic business practices. He educated himself in every possible way, making sure that he could never be cheated, that he would never lose what he built. It wasn’t just for him; he had to make sure he could provide for Connie too. By the time Eduardo Montoya was thirty, he had one of, if not the, largest independent landscaping company in the Tri-State area, providing services for residential and commercial properties from White Plains to West Hampton. He owned nearly a hundred trucks and employed three times as many men, and he was proud to tell clients that all of them were legal. As big as his business was, he still worked eighteen hours a day to keep it going – he hedged against rising fuel costs, invested in more energy-efficient equipment and made certain that by the first of December, all of his lines of credit were fully paid off.

What he didn’t reinvest in his business, Eduardo used to put his brilliant baby sister through college, and no local school would do for her. Connie went to Harvard, and now worked on Wall Street. Tall and fair haired, she carried herself like a princess and spoke like one too. It didn’t surprise him that she managed to get engaged to an old-money Anglo, or that she never introduced him to her fiancé’s family.

Since she was a teenager, Connie had hated being reminded of her _Latina_ heritage. She refused to speak Spanish. If he forgot himself and did speak Spanish to her, she didn’t ignore him. Instead, she’d respond in French or Italian or Russian. He understood why she rejected her heritage, he really did. They even talked about it before she went off to college. She felt that a self identified _Latina_ could too easily be consigned to a niche role in the business world – and she had ambitions that ranged beyond labels. While she could use her background as a lever to pry doors open, she argued that it would simply be easier to let people judge her on her smarts and her looks. When he countered that using her looks was the same thing as using her heritage, she disagreed. The Anglos did it all the time.

When Connie called to invite him to a barbecue at her future in-laws’ this weekend, part of him wanted to decline. He knew that his baby sister was a little embarrassed by him. That had been obvious at her graduation, when she introduced him as “Ward” and told everyone he was a landscape architect, not that he owned a landscaping business. He was okay with that. What he was not okay with was the name she had put on her diploma, Constance Montaine. They had a short, fierce argument that abruptly ended when she shoved the court documents in his face. They’d barely spoken since.

None of this explained why he was rattling down a quiet road in this exclusive lakefront enclave in one of his oldest trucks. Even though his Mercedes was in the shop, he certainly could have taken the Ford Explorer he used when meeting clients, or rented a car for the day. Something in him, something mean and small and angry, wanted to embarrass Connie. He wasn’t proud of himself for doing that, which was why he’d brought a peace offering with him – a cooler filled with dry-aged porterhouse steaks for the barbecue.

And embarrass her was something he certainly was going to do. He pulled up to the top of the circular driveway to find that his hosts had valet parking.

One of the valets, little more than a snot-nosed kid, looked at the broken down truck with the landscaping gear in the back, “Montoya Green Service, Brooklyn New York” stenciled on the door panel, and said, “There’s a party today, you’ll have to come back and cut the lawn tomorrow.”

“I’m a guest.” Eduardo expected this.

“Yeah…and so am I.” The little shit was giving him attitude.

“You got a guest list, _hijo_?” He rarely spoke Spanish anymore, at least outside of work.

“Yeah, I do…and I don’t see any gardeners on it.” The boy was really trying to piss him off.

“Do you have an ‘Ed Montoya’ on that list?” He figured that Connie wouldn’t put his real name down.

“Nope, no Eds, no Edwards, no Montoyas.”

Eduardo thought for a moment. “What about ‘Ward Montaine’?”

The boy checked again, looked at him and called out to an older man who’d just got back from parking another car. “This guy says he’s ‘Ward Montaine’ – but he first said his name was Ed Montoya. Sounds hinky to me.”

The kid left to go park the red Lamborghini that pulled up behind his truck. The new guy gave him a dirty look and asked him to pull over. “Wait here, I’ll have to check with the house.”

Five minutes turned into ten and ten minutes into a half hour. Fed up, Eduardo turned off the engine, got out and retrieved the cooler. He pushed his way past the parkers and into the foyer of a very grand house. Someone said “Excuse me” as if she smelled something bad and quickly left. He stood there, feeling like a fool, when he spotted Connie through the windows. She saw him at the same time and rushed inside.

“Connie…”

“Ward, what are doing?”

He gritted his teeth against that god-awful pretentious name. “I’m here for your party.” He shoved the cooler at her.

“What the hell is this?”

“Steaks – I didn’t want to come empty handed.”

“You are an idiot…this is a catered affair. We don’t need raw meat. You want to bring something, you bring a bottle of wine.”

Eduardo felt the burn of embarrassment flush over his entire body. “I wanted …”

“I don’t care what you wanted… you’re ruining my day. Someone said that there’s a beat-up old gardener’s truck in the driveway – is that yours?”

He didn’t say anything.

“You did this deliberately, didn’t you? You really do want to ruin my day, ruin my life. You selfish prick.”

His temper, already on a short leash, exploded. “Selfish? I’m the selfish one? Funny – who was the one who didn’t go to college because he had a baby sister to take care of? Who was the one who didn’t go on a date for eight years because his little sister got jealous? Who was the one who went without a new car for a decade so he could save money to put his sister through Harvard? Funny, if I really was the selfish one, I’d have dumped you in Washington Heights with Tia Luisa and never looked back. You’d be working with your cousins in the maintenance department at Columbia-Presbyterian, cleaning up other people’s shit and grateful you had a job.”

Connie flushed at his words. “You take your steaks and your beat-up old truck and get out of here. Find a gas station or something and park there, I’ll send someone to pick you up.”

“No way, _hermana_. That’s not happening. We’re done. I’m sick and tired of being a dirty secret. You think you’re so lucky, with your blonde curls and pale eyes. What’s going to happen when you pop out babies as dark as I am? Your _esposo_ will to start looking really hard at the gardener, the pool boy and every dark-skinned man who crosses your path and will wonder if you’re fucking him.”

When she slapped him, Eduardo knew he’d gone too far. Connie didn’t say a word as she turned on her heel and left. He picked up the cooler, walked back to his truck and drove off.

He drove on autopilot, as angry at himself as he was at Connie. He cursed his temper in three languages, and decided that he had to make this right. He pulled into a gas station just before the on-ramp to the highway and called her cell phone. She didn’t answer. He waited a few minutes and called again. He left a message, abjectly apologizing. He sent a text message, and another, and another. He sat in his truck, waiting and praying for some response, but when the phone rang, he nearly dropped it in surprise.

“Connie!”

“No. This is Steven Cartwright, Connie’s fiancé.”

“Um, hi…” Eduardo didn’t get a chance to say anything else.

“Connie asked me to talk to you, to tell you that she doesn’t ever want to hear from you again. She’s not interested in your apologies or your excuses, and frankly, I completely support her in this. She doesn’t need the negativity you seem intent on bringing into her life. Please stay away from her.”

The man’s tones were clipped and polished, and Eduardo instantly despised him, and despised his sister for choosing him. “Tell my sister to have a nice life.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and he ended the call without another word.

He got out of his truck, numb and shaking. Sitting on the tailgate, Eduardo buried his face in his hand and thought about his mother. She’d developed breast cancer when she was pregnant with Connie, and rather than risk her baby’s life, she delayed treatment. That cost her everything. Before her baby girl was five months old, the cancer had spread to her bones and no amount of radiation or chemotherapy could help her. The night before she died, he went into her bedroom. She was all skin and bones, but her eyes burned as she fought for each breath. “Eduardo, promise me that you’ll always look after your sister, no matter what.” He remembered looking at baby Constanza, tucked in a crib next to the bed. She was so fat and healthy, almost obscenely so when compared to his mother’s wasted body.

He promised her that he would, _no matter what,_ and for over twenty years he kept that promise. But now…Connie would have to stand on her own. There was nothing more he could or would do for her. A wave of grief passed over him, for his mother, for his father, for himself. For the little girl whose knees he had bandaged, whose homework he had checked, whom he had loved like no one else.

Eduardo scrubbed at his face, feeling the tears on his cheeks. He patted his pockets for a handkerchief. When he blew his nose, a dog barked. It was so deep it sounded unreal, and it startled the crap out him.

“ _Madre de Dios!_ ” From out of nowhere, two dogs had appeared and were sitting at his feet. These were the biggest fucking dogs he’d ever seen and where the hell did they come from? The brownish one barked at him again, not quite so loudly this time, almost like he was introducing himself. The gray one with the blue eyes had a goofy expression, like he was just happy to be happy. Eduardo loved dogs, and would have had a houseful of them if he hadn’t worked such long hours. He stuck out a hand, palm to the ground, for the dogs to sniff.

The brown one was a little cautious, but the gray one sort of dove in, sniffing and then licking like he was his best friend, or just very tasty. He turned his hand up and it was instantly filled with an enormous and very dirty paw. The brown one apparently decided he was okay and nosed his way under his arm. Unlike the gray one, there was a lot of intelligence in this beast’s eyes. Eduardo felt measured and judged and not found wanting at all.

Besides being the biggest, these were the funniest looking dogs he’d ever seen. Their faces, with the brushy fur going in all directions, were kind of silly. Their long snouts should have been elegant, but weren’t. The floppy ears that seemed too small for such giants added to their almost comical appearance.

“You’re wolfhounds, aren’t you?” The brown one barked as if in agreement and the other one just stared at the ground. They certainly seemed friendly, but he didn’t want to spook them. He reached out again, slowly, and scratched the brown dog’s ears. The massive head leaned into his palm, and he kept scratching. Oddly, when he tried to pet the top of his head, the brown dog kept moving away, but he let him scratch and pet under his ears and chin. The fur was rough and dense, and as he scratched, the softer undercoat began to shed and his hand was quickly coated with dog hair. He didn’t mind at all, and when the gray one shoved his head under his other hand, he gave it – him – the same treatment.

The pain from his confrontation with Connie slipped away as he focused on the dogs.

“Where are you from, _perros_?” The brown one looked at him, then walked around the truck. The gray one stayed under his hand, too content to move, at least until his _compadre_ barked. “Well, I’ll be…” Eduardo didn’t complete the thought. The brown dog had answered his question – his paw was on the word “Brooklyn.”

As stupid as that thought was, he had to ask. “You’re really from Brooklyn?” The dog barked and pawed at the stenciled lettering on the door. “No…you’re not from Brooklyn.” Again, the dog barked, and this time seemed angry. He scraped and pawed at the door, just under the word. Eduardo looked at the gray beast. “Are you from Brooklyn too?” At least that one just cocked an ear at him, like a dog.

He couldn’t help himself. “Do you want to go home?” The damn brown dog started barking again, and this time sounded like he was saying “yes, yes, yes.” The beast actually began to dance around in excitement. The gray dog seemed puzzled, but still happy, and Eduardo wondered if there was something wrong with him – compared to his friend, he seemed a little slow, a little stupid.

Neither dog had collars or tags, but they clearly were not wild animals. He wondered how they’d got from Brooklyn (and he really did believe they were from the Borough) to the outer edge of Orange County. He figured he‘d take them home and see if there was anything posted about two lost wolfhounds. They were certainly distinctive animals. If worse came to worst and no one claimed them, he’d have them fixed and keep them himself. They’d be a trip to take on the job sites and he could certainly use the company. But what to call them?

He looked at the brown one, standoffish and full of fierce intelligence, while the gray one was friendly and a little dumb. Laurel and Hardy? Nah... Abbott and Costello? Nope. Eduardo then remembered the old classic he read in high school about the two friends – one slow, the other smart. Lennie and George. That fit.

Both dogs looked awfully skinny, like they hadn’t had a good meal in a long time. The meat…he suddenly remembered the fortune in prime aged beef he had in the cooler. “You hungry?” George stopped and looked at him with almost terrifying intensity. Eduardo backed off and kept his hands palms down until he could reach into the cooler and pull out a package. He slowly unwrapped one of the porterhouses and placed it on the ground between the two animals.

If he thought things were weird before, what happened next was the oddest, freakiest thing he ever saw in his life. Lennie sniffed the meat, licked it – as if to test its flavor – and then dragged it to George. Lennie nosed at his friend, licking him across the mouth, as if to tell him it was all right to eat, then backed off. George looked at Lennie, looked at Eduardo, and then tore into the raw steak. He finished about three quarters of it before stopping and giving a sharp bark at Lennie. Lennie stayed where he was, his long gray tail wagging against the pavement. George barked again and nosed the rest of the meat towards the other dog.

Eduardo laughed and both beasts looked at him.

“Finish your steak, George. I’ve got one just for Lennie.” He fished out a second package, unwrapped it and put on the ground, close to the big gray beast.

George didn’t move to finish his food, and Lennie wouldn’t even look at the new piece of meat. Instead, George took the uneaten chunk over to the other dog and dropped it in front of him. Lennie whined and refused to eat. Eduardo sat on the tailgate and watched, rapt. George kept nudging at his friend, finally nipping him – once on the ear and once on the shoulder.

Lennie licked George’s mouth, George nuzzled him back. After what seemed like an age, Lennie finally ate the small piece of meat. Eduardo couldn’t figure out what this meant, but he was utterly fascinated. These two dogs were caring for each other as if they were human.

George ate some of the other steak after Lennie nosed it over to him. At least he was able to coax Lennie into eating a little more of that one. Of the pair, Lennie was definitely skinnier. He wondered how long they’d been out in the wild and what had happened to them along the way.

“Come on, boys. Daylight’s wasting here.” He opened the passenger door and the two beasts climbed in. It was a tight squeeze, but Eduardo was used to that. In the early days, he’d often worked with his crews and they’d pile in six to a truck, and these dirty dogs still smelled a hell of a lot better than five men who'd been laboring for twelve hours. The windows were rolled down, it was a nice day and early enough that they shouldn’t hit too much traffic on the way back to Brooklyn. If he was lucky, they’d be back at his house off of DeKalb Avenue by 4 pm.


	10. SUNDAY AFTERNOON

PETER COULD NOT BELIEVE THEIR LUCK. He had gotten Neal on his feet shortly after dawn, and they kept traveling parallel to the southern side of Route 84. Neal’s hunting was erratic; he seemed more interested in sniffing than chasing, and in playing than killing – though he did present him with three rabbits this morning. As hungry as he was, Peter didn’t mind. He worried about Neal, the continued toll that the killing could be taking on him. Peter had no idea what was going on inside Neal’s head anymore and he was worried that he would never be able to bring him back from wherever he had gone.

A little after the sun was at its highest, and Peter struggled to remember that that meant it was noon, the arrow in his head pointed him out of the woods and onto some local roads. The area seemed deserted – an empty trucking depot, a few warehouses and a gas station. There was a single vehicle there, a beat-up gardening truck, and a man sitting on the tailgate with his head in his hands.

Peter couldn’t explain why he felt it was safe or right or important to approach this person. Considering that there was no earthly reason why he and Neal had been turned into dogs, he decided to trust his instincts – his gut – and moved towards the man. Neal followed at his heels, and Peter had the strongest sense of déjà vu. How many times had they approached a witness or a suspect like this – Peter in the lead, but Neal right behind.

He sat down, and was startled at how good the smooth, sun-warmed concrete felt on his ass. He resisted the urge to lie down and sleep in the sun. Instead, he sat there and watched a grown man cry. It was an interesting sight, but it made him uncomfortable; he was watching something he had no right to see. The man scrubbed at his face, pulled out a snowy white handkerchief and blew his nose.

The so-human sound surprised Peter and for the first time, he got a good look at the man’s face and let out a startled bark. He knew this man. He couldn’t remember his name, but he knew him. He lived about half a block away from Peter’s own den – no, the _home_ – that he shared with … _Elizabeth_. He remembered talking to this man a few times – about something. It wasn’t important. What was important was that they could get home, soon. _Maybe_.

The man was friendly and Peter was startled to realize that he could clearly understand what he was saying. At least the metamorphosis that was slowly leeching his memory of everything he loved had not yet destroyed his human intellect.

Peter was amused to see Neal behave like a great big puppy, and he thought it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to play “dog” too, since he was one, _for the moment_ , and he wanted to get back to Brooklyn. It was as if all the bad, evil luck they’d had since … however long it had been since they were transformed … had turned good.

Their new friend asked them where they were from, and Peter wanted to jump for joy. Instead he barked and ran to the side of the truck. While he had trouble remembering things that were important, like this man’s name, he did know that commercial vehicles had to display their operator’s address on the exterior. He didn’t question the fact that the only word he could read was the “BROOKLYN” painted on the driver’s side door. He just barked and scratched at it with his paws, hoping that his neighbor understood.

Not only did he “get” that they were from Brooklyn, but the guy had food for them. The only problem was he couldn’t seem to make himself eat it– at least not until Neal brought it over to him. What worried him was Neal’s refusal to eat. He had forced himself to leave a piece of the deliciously fatty steak for Neal, but Neal wouldn’t even look at it. It was even worse when his neighbor (and Peter wished he could remember the man’s name) opened up a second package of steak and put it in front of Neal. Neal wouldn’t eat it, and until Peter disciplined him, he wouldn’t touch the leftover from the first steak. Neal pushed the second steak at him, and despite his guilt at eating the meat intended for Neal, he consumed about half. Again, Peter had to nip at Neal to get him to eat. He didn’t want to think about the implications of that.

Finally, the man (who had taken to calling Neal “Lennie” and him “George” – good book, but stupid names) opened up the passenger side door. Peter jumped in, and barked at Neal to follow. Neal was reluctant, that wasn’t hard to tell, and just as Peter was about to get out and force Neal, he got in. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but they all fit. He could not believe it, but they could be home tonight, instead of traveling another four or five days – dodging traffic, scrounging for food, worrying about Neal.

Then disaster struck. The passenger door slammed shut and the arrow in his head vanished. Peter was suddenly bereft – he had no idea how they would get home. He was utterly lost, but he fought against the panic. This truck was going to Brooklyn, it was going to take him and Neal home. Peter just kept trying to hold onto that, to force the anxiety recede. He listened with half a brain as the man _(what was his name???)_ rambled on about his sister. Peter didn’t care. All he could think about was home, and he worried that they would get lost. He could picture the front of his house, but he could no longer remember the block or the name of his street.

Despite his worries about his loss of memory, he was happier than he could remember feeling in days. The miles flew by, miles that he and Neal had would otherwise have had to struggle and suffer through – even worse than traveling through the forest. It seemed like just a few minutes had passed before they were approaching the Tappan Zee Bridge and crossing the Hudson River. Despite his anxiety, Peter could barely contain his excitement and was so fidgety that the guy behind the wheel thought he needed to go. Well, he was a dog and he always could go. They stopped somewhere close to the western terminal and got out of the truck. Neal watered every bush and tree in sight, and Peter finally gave into the irresistible urge to cover Neal’s marks with his own.

When Neal sat down on the pavement and started scratching at himself, Peter didn’t bother to nudge or nip him. Instead he lay down on top of the other dog, which was just as effective a method of discipline as anything else he could have tried. The guy laughed and held the door open until both of them got back into the truck. The Sunday afternoon traffic was substantial, and it took the better part of an hour to get across the river. Peter thanked whatever power had put them in the path of this guy – this neighbor – who was taking them home. There simply was no way that they would have been able to get across this bridge alive. It was long, it was narrow, and there were no footpaths, which meant they would have had to dodge cars and trucks for the entire three mile span.

Peter tried to lie down on the seat, but he was too big and Neal was in the way – with his head out the window, seemingly enraptured by the feel of the wind in his face. The man looked at them and laughed. He said something that sounded like “crazy big dogs” but Peter couldn’t quite hear him over the sound of the rushing air and the confusion in his head.

As the miles passed and they drew closer to the city, closer to the place he tried to remember as home, Peter felt his sense of self start to evaporate faster and faster. He tried to hold on, but the harder he tried the faster his memories slipped away. Home – why was he so anxious to get home? He could remember the house, but he couldn’t remember where it was. Brooklyn, yes. But where was Brooklyn?

The road was relatively traffic free until they got to the more densely populated suburbs, and again Peter was grateful not to have to be doing this on foot. He struggled to remember how long it had taken them when they left New York – when they were human. A few hours? It was getting harder and harder to understand time. He heard a voice in his head say “time exists so everything doesn’t happen at once” – someone famous, someone smart said that – but it was meaningless to him. Every moment seemed unique now. What had happened to him before, his whole life, was drifting away, a fog burning off under the hot morning sun.

Peter tried to remember Elizabeth, but her face was fading. Not only her face, but her name, and after a while who _she_ was to him. He tried to remember his own name. It wasn’t George, but then he thought, _maybe it could be_. As the truck rolled along, and his new friend talked and talked and talked, he lost more of himself. Why was he here? What was happening?

He looked at the other dog in the car and he could barely remember that his name was _Neal_ , that he was his friend. But when Neal looked back at him, when he whimpered and nosed at his jaw, some things settled back into place. He closed his eyes and once again tried to find the arrow that would point him home. It was gone as if it had never existed. Maybe he didn’t need it anymore, and its absence bothered him less and less. He didn’t know how they were going to find his den – where he lived with his mate. Maybe he never would. He had Neal and Neal was his pack. They would hunt – or at least Neal would hunt and he would keep them safe. Maybe it didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember his name or where he lived or that he had a mate. Maybe all he needed to do was to stay with Neal.

That was what a pack did, and after all they were a pack, and the pack was all that mattered.

 

NEAL ENJOYED THE FEEL OF THE WIND IN HIS FACE AND THE SUN IN HIS EYES. The speed was good too. It was nice not having to get someplace by moving his feet, because they were hurting him. His whole body hurt, and he didn’t understand why. There were a lot of things he didn’t understand, but he didn’t care. He had Peter and he had this other dog as part of his pack now. He just hoped that the other dog wouldn’t try to take his place away from him. It was his responsibility, _his right_ , to feed Peter, to bring him the food. But today, just this once, he let the other dog give Peter meat. Even though the meat was cold, and there was no blood, it was safe to eat – he made sure of that. Peter seemed to enjoy it – but maybe because Peter needed to eat. But Peter trusted _him_ , and he wouldn’t eat until Neal gave him the food. He just wished he had been more successful hunting since the deer. But Peter didn’t seem to mind – he let him play and sniff and mark the trees and bushes.

He wasn’t hungry, though, and the meat didn’t make him hungry. It smelled like something that had been dead for a long time. But Peter wanted him to eat. And he could no more disobey Peter than he could walk on his hind legs.

 

THE DESPAIR THAT SHROUDED HER DURING THE NIGHT DIDN’T LIFT WITH THE SUNRISE. She went through all of the motions, though. Drank the cup of tea June made for her, ate some toast, stared at the telephone and willed it to ring. She supposed that she should call Peter’s mother and father and let them know that their son was missing. She should call her own family, too. They’d be here in a heartbeat, to care for her, to take on her problems, to smother her with their well-meaning attention. But she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow.

“Elizabeth?”

June looked at her, sorrow and concern filling her eyes.

She smiled at the older woman and was immensely grateful for everything she’d done for her.

“I have to go, for a little while. Will you be okay if Mozzie stays with you?”

Elizabeth looked around June’s shoulder and saw Neal’s friend standing by the doorway. He gave her a small, sad smile and she returned it. Both of them seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“I’ll be okay, June. Mozzie’s good company.”

June brushed a kiss against her cheek and gave her a tight hug. “I’ll be back tonight – you have my cell phone number, so call me if you need me.”

Elizabeth wanted to tell June that she didn’t need to keep watch over her, but she couldn’t make herself say the words. Just having another person in the house made the nights bearable.

She let June see herself out and sat on the couch with Satchmo’s head in her lap. Mozzie walked around the perimeter of the room, waving a handheld scanner. Satisfied that there were no bugs, he sat down next to her and moved his hand to pet the dog’s back, but his hand stopped a few inches above the fur. Elizabeth saw, but didn’t comment on the abortive gesture. A man was entitled to his quirks.

“You doing all right, Moz?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I think I am doing about the same as you are.”

“In other words, like crap and barely holding it together?”

“Pretty much.” She sighed and continued to stroke Satchmo’s head. Except for last night, she’d never discussed Peter and Neal with June. And even that wasn’t so much a discussion as it was giving voice to her despair. But Moz, he was different. Neal’s quirky friend was an endless source of fascination for her, and she had a soft spot for him. Elizabeth also respected his intelligence and valued his opinion. So she couldn’t help herself, she had to ask.

“What do you think happened to Neal and Peter?”

The look he gave her was startling in its intensity, but he didn’t answer right away.

“You know something, Moz?”

“Not precisely.”

“But you do have a theory?”

Moz didn’t say anything, but he looked like words were about to erupt out of him.

“Moz, please. Tell me.” She wondered if she was simply projecting the faintest of hopes on him.

“El…” Moz licked his lips and fiddled with his rings. “I have a theory, but it’s crazy. You’ll think I’m crazy.”

She kept quiet, not wanting to spook him.

“Did any of the Suits show you the final forensic reports?”

“No – I only saw the one that said that there were dog hairs inside Peter and Neal’s clothing. The one that Diana showed both of us on Thursday morning.”

Mozzie grimaced. “There was another lab report. The Lady Suit let me read it yesterday morning. It had the results of the DNA analysis.”

“And?”

“And it was bizarre, to say the least. The thing is – the DNA they found on Peter’s shoulder holster was both canine and human.”

“In the same spot?”

“Yeah.”

“Whose DNA was it?”

“Neal’s. It matched the DNA they extracted from the sample I gave them – hairs from his comb.”

“What did they do to him? To them?” Elizabeth could barely restrain her sob. She envisioned black-masked captors shoving Peter’s holster in Neal’s mouth, then giving it to a vicious dog to chew on.

“I don’t think _anyone_ did anything to Neal and Peter.”

“What?” She was completely puzzled.

“What if…” Moz paused, as if he were afraid to go on.

“What if…what?”

“What if …” Moz took a deep breath. “What if Peter and Neal were turned into dogs?”

Elizabeth stopped obsessively petting Satchmo and looked at Mozzie. She blinked. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you say, ‘What if Peter and Neal were turned into dogs?’ ”

Mozzie ducked his head and didn’t say anything.

“People don’t turn into animals, Mozzie.” Elizabeth wanted to scream at Moz. She didn’t.

“I know – I told you it sounds crazy, but when you look at all of the evidence...”

“There was no evidence – we don’t know what happened to them.” She felt the hysteria returning.

“El, El – there’s plenty of evidence. And it all points to something so bizarre that we almost have to dismiss it out of hand.”

She tried to calm herself down. “Okay. Let’s pretend that this is some vast government conspiracy that’s performing scientific experiments on my husband and his partner. What do you see that would prove that?”

“First, I don’t think it’s a vast government conspiracy – but we can discuss _that_ in a moment.” Moz donned a pair of gloves and pulled files out of his bag and laid them out on the coffee table.

She couldn’t help but notice that these were official FBI files. “Where did you get these?”

His eyes kept shifting, looking around the room. “A monster delivered them.”

Elizabeth didn’t want to go there.

He drew her attention back to the folders. “Take a look at this picture.”

The photo was of a pair of pants lying in the middle of a road. The belt was still clasped, as if the body that was wearing the pants had simply melted away.

“And this one.”

As in the other picture, the clothing looked less like it had been ripped off but more like pulled away from a body. The front of the shirt was torn, but the sleeves were caught in the jacket and the cuffs were fastened. She recognized the cuff links – that was Neal’s shirt.

The last picture he showed her was the most mind-blowing – a shoe with a sock in it, and around the sock was Neal’s tracker. Again, it looked like the body had just melted away.

She looked back at the first picture – those were Neal’s pants. She was sure of it.

“What about Peter’s clothing?”

Moz hesitated. “That’s a different story altogether.”

“Show me, please.”

Mozzie arrayed almost a dozen photos across the table and handed her a magnifying glass. Elizabeth recognized the fabric that was scattered on the road. It was from one of Peter’s summer suits – a lightweight gray polyester blend. Something she loathed, but Peter refused to get rid of. She swallowed against the rising nausea. This suit – or what was left of it – was shredded. Like Neal’s, Peter’s pants still had the belt on, but they were ripped at the seams, held together only at the waistband. The jacket and the shirt were in tatters. Socks and shoes looked like they’d been flung across the road.

“What does this mean?”

“The forensics report says that the seams on Peter’s clothing – his pants, in particular – were burst, not ripped. The jacket and shirt were attacked by claws and teeth, but based on the tearing pattern, they were not torn by an external agent. Coupled with the dog fur found inside the clothes...” Moz stared at her. It wasn’t hard to figure out where he was going.

“Whatever tore the clothing was wearing it at the time.” She scrubbed her eyes. “You know that what you are suggesting is ludicrous in the extreme.”

“I know, but discarding the impossibility of it, it’s the only logical conclusion.”

She felt like she was simply grasping at straws – to believe in something positive, just because the likely alternative was too painful to accept. “You said you didn’t think this was a vast government conspiracy.”

“I know, hard as you may find it to believe – not everything is the result of the shady manipulations of the Power Elite. Sometimes there are even greater forces at work.”

Moz sounded so self-righteous that she couldn’t help but give a watery chuckle.

“Okay – what greater forces?”

Moz dove back into he bag and pulled out, of all things, an ancient copy of Edith Hamilton’s _Mythology_ , flagged in dozens of places.

She listened, incredulous, as Moz went through myth after myth – most of which centered around the goddess Artemis and someone killing a sacred animal. Her head began to spin after a while.

“Moz, Moz – these are fairy tales. They aren’t real.”

He blinked at her. “Maybe. Maybe not. You know that Peter killed a deer.”

She nodded.

“The deer – it didn’t belong in a forest in Pennsylvania. It’s almost extinct, and it’s only found in the Middle East and some of the ‘Stans.”

“Maybe it escaped from a zoo – or it was someone’s pet. It wasn’t a goddess’ sacred animal.”

“Or maybe it was there for Peter and Neal to kill. Or not kill. Maybe they were transformed as punishment? Or a test?”

Elizabeth flung herself up and out of the couch. She paced around the living room, feeling like a madwoman caught in a play. “Okay, okay. Supposing that this is what happened – and I’m not saying I agree with you – where are they now?”

Mozzie pulled one more book out of his bag. _The Incredible Journey._ “Ever read it?”

She nodded. “Yeah, in junior high school.” She calmed down and whispered. “Do you think they are trying to come home?”

Moz nodded. “I think, as strange and as unlikely as it may be, that’s what’s happened.” He licked his lips. “I am a man of science. I don’t like the idea of chance or fate or unseen powers, but everything fits. And I need to keep hoping.”

Elizabeth whispered, “Because if you stop hoping...all you have left is despair.”


	11. LATE SUNDAY AFTERNOON

EDUARDO WAS TORN BETWEEN HIS ENJOYMENT OF HIS TWO NEW “FRIENDS” and the grief over what he suspected was the final breach with his sister. He found himself talking to the dogs about Connie, what it was like growing up without a mother, what it was like raising Connie. Where he went wrong, what he did right. He knew the beasts didn’t understand, but pouring out everything felt good – sort of like confession without worrying about penance.

He hoped that no one would claim the dogs – he really wanted to keep them. If there ever was a benefit to being a business owner, it was having the right to set the rules. He’d keep George and Lennie with him all day – take them into the office, out to see clients. They were clearly trained and obedient, and if George was the more dominant of the two, he was okay with that – so long as he understood that he, Eduardo, was the master and needed to be obeyed.

The ride back through New York was easy until they got to Nyack and the approach to the bridge. George started to get agitated and he thought that it would probably be a good idea to let them out for a chance to do their business. He found a parking lot behind an abandoned building and just as he opened the door and let them out, he cursed himself. They could take off and then where would he be, chasing two dogs that he didn’t own, that didn’t have collars or tags – dogs whose real names he didn't’ know.

To his surprise and relief, George and Lennie did their business and started to play. At least George did; Lennie just sat on the ground and scratched himself. George sat on top of the gray dog, who just lay there, panting and smiling – too stupid to realize that his friend wanted to play.

The traffic along the Tappan Zee was insane, but he didn’t mind. The day was lovely, the company was good and there was really no other place he wanted to be. The road emptied out after Tarrytown and it was pretty clear driving until Yonkers. That was expected – but he noticed that George was behaving a bit strangely. He seemed confused – looking out the window, then back at Lennie, licking at the other dog. When he wasn’t fussing or fidgeting, he just panted with his mouth wide open.

“Hey, George, you okay?” He didn’t expect him to answer, but the big brown beast didn’t even turn to look at him. He whimpered and rested against his friend.

“What’s the matter, boy? You’re not feeling too good?” Eduardo suddenly worried that maybe the meat he’d fed him was bad. “You’re going to be sick, George?”

They were on the Major Deegan Expressway and there was too much traffic to pull over, and even though the dogs hadn’t run off when he let them out before, something told him it wouldn’t be a good idea to let them out now. Besides, this was an old, beat up utility truck, and it had seen far worse than dog spew.

“We’ll be home soon.” At the word _home_ , George finally looked at him. There was something pathetically eager in his eyes. “You want to go to Brooklyn, right? You want to go home?”

George panted and whined in response.

“We’ll be in Brooklyn soon – but it’s a big place. I’m gonna have to keep you close until we can find where you belong. And if you don’t belong to anyone, I’m going to keep the two of you with me. Are you cool with that?”

George barked at him – and it was not a happy sound. Eduardo worried some more and cursed the traffic.

It took another hour to get through the Bronx. The Yankees had just finished a home game and no matter what road he took, it was more stop than go. By the time he cleared that congestion, the Queens-bound traffic was building for the start of a Mets game. It was one of the rare Sundays when the two teams had back-to-back home stands. George was getting more and more agitated and there was still no place for him to stop and let the dog out, especially not without a leash. At least Lennie was quiet. He had vacated his window-side position and was draped across the bench seat, lightly panting and seemingly oblivious to his friend’s distress.

George kept shifting around in the limited space of the passenger-side foot well, sometimes resting his head on top of Lennie, sometimes trying to stand over him. The poor dog was uncomfortable and Eduardo wanted to give Lennie a bit of a smack for being so selfish, so oblivious to his friend’s distress. But when he reached down to give the big gray dog a small shove, George actually growled at him. Eduardo flattened his hand and held it palm out as a gesture of peace, but George wouldn’t lick it. That was too submissive an act for him – although he did touch it with his muzzle before looking away with a small sniff.

Okay, so George and Lennie were definitely like their namesakes, very protective of each other. That gave Eduardo pause – he wanted them as part of his family, provided that no one claimed them. But if they were so devoted to each other, would they extend their devotion to him? He laughed at his own thoughts – he’d only met the pair a few hours ago, and they were dogs, not people. What was he doing building pipe dreams around a pair of overgrown strays? This must be just an overreaction to his confrontation with Connie.

The BQE was far too busy for a Sunday afternoon, but thankfully most of the traffic was Queens-bound, and Eduardo was able to get off at the Fort Greene exit. “We’re almost there, boys.” The old truck rattled on the heavily grooved pavement. Despite the renaissance throughout Brooklyn over the past decade, the roads were still a mess. As Eduardo made a sharp turn onto Willoughby Street, he bottomed out in a huge pothole and the truck came to a juddering halt.

“Shit – you two okay?” Lennie had slid partly off the seat, and George was draped over him, but they seemed unhurt.

“Wait here, don’t move.” Jesús Cristo, he was talking to them like they were people. He held out a hand, pointed in a useless gesture and commanded “Sit, stay.” _That’s better._

Eduardo got out of the truck and surveyed the damage, leaving the driver’s side door ajar. As he walked around the truck, he didn’t notice that Lennie had gotten up and stuck his nose out. A nose that was followed by a head, front paws, back legs and a tail.

 

THINGS SMELLED FAMILIAR, YET NOT EXACTLY AS THEY SHOULD. Things looked familiar too, but not quite. He wanted to get out of this thing that moved so quickly. It was good but not good. Peter was not happy, but he wasn’t unhappy. Everything was not right, but it could be okay. Neal wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t feel quite right – if he knew what right was supposed to feel like.

When the thing they were in bounced around and stopped, the other dog got out. He did something with his strange paws, but Neal didn’t know what he meant. So he got out too. This was a different place again. It wasn’t like the strange forest they crossed through at night, although there was green here – a forest was nearby. But there were other things too: the smell of other dogs like the new pack mate, and the smell of dogs that were like him but definitely weren’t pack. Those dogs had put their marks all over the place and that made him almost weak with anger. He wanted to bark, he wanted to bite, he wanted to make sure that none of them came between him and Peter.

Neal walked around the thing and saw that there were lots of other things like this – they were moving fast and he was careful to keep out of their way. The new pack mate was kneeling down, on the ground – and that was good. His head shouldn’t be higher than his, shouldn’t be higher than Peter’s. He walked away, leaving the thing and this unwanted pack mate behind.

Much to his delight, Peter followed him out of the thing. With immense pleasure, he greeted Peter, licking at his mouth and jaw. Peter did what he always did in greeting. He nipped him. First his ear, then his shoulder. The bites didn’t hurt, and they made him remember that Peter was his leader.

They sat together on the sun-warmed ground, and Neal waited for Peter to start moving. But Peter was seemingly content to stay where they were. They watched the things go by, and Neal couldn’t be happier when Peter rested his head on Neal’s back.

Then he spotted another dog. It was across the road, heading into the forest. That dog made him angry – he didn’t belong there. The forest was his, his and Peter’s. He looked at Peter, who didn’t seem to see the other dog. Even so, Neal knew that he had to defend his home, his pack.

Something within him was screaming not to run after this other dog. There was a small, hidden voice – it confused Neal. The voice wasn’t pack and it wasn’t _not-pack_ – it was a part of him that shouldn’t be there any longer. He didn’t want to listen to it, just like he didn’t want to listen to the strange pack mate. The only one he should listen to was Peter, right?

Still, he did the one thing that the voice inside him told him NOT TO DO. He ran. He ignored Peter's command, he ignored his other packmate's orders. Neal ran.

He ran after that other dog, that not-pack dog. He ran and ran and found the forest – which wasn’t a forest at all. There were lots of other dogs. None of these were pack. He didn’t understand. They were all tied somehow to others like their new pack mate. That made him nervous. Maybe he shouldn’t be here?

Neal backed off – it was time to go back to Peter. Then a small dog, no bigger than his head, rushed up to him and started barking. Neal wasn’t cowed, not precisely, and it wasn’t until the small thing showed its teeth that Neal got … upset. The other dog pressed its advantage and jumped up at him, and Neal bolted. He wasn’t afraid – he could have killed that little beast with a swipe of his paw, but that seemed wrong. He was the one that was in a place he wasn’t supposed to be.

There were other dogs – little ones, bigger ones, though none bigger than he was – but they were all barking at him – and finally, at this last moment, after everything, Neal was frightened. He wanted Peter. He needed Peter. He ran for the tree line, and then past it, up and down slopes, across grass and concrete. There was a barrier, but he found his way out, past the fast moving things, across the hard ground and back to a forest. When he found a small den, something no bigger than the thing that had brought him here, he took refuge. Peter would find him, Peter would keep him safe, Peter would protect him.

Neal whimpered and shivered in the semi-darkness, waiting. Peter never came.

 

WHEN THE TRUCK BOTTOMED OUT AND STOPPED, PETER WAS MOMENTARILY DISORIENTED. He was thrown against the floor of the truck and his whole body hurt. The man told him to stay and that sort of seemed okay. He really didn’t want to go anywhere.

But Neal, he had to create problems. Somehow, that seemed normal; it felt like a familiar pattern. He followed him out onto the street and they walked away from the man and the truck. Peter looked around. This world was different from the forest, but it was full of familiar noises and intensely unfamiliar smells. There were signs of other dogs all over the place, which made him agitated. Despite his lethargy, he wanted to run out and cover all those marks with his own scent.

He gave Neal the customary nip on his ear and shoulder after Neal licked him. He settled down to watch the dog – his friend, who seemed to be very agitated.

Then Peter noticed an odd thing. Lying out here, on the warm pavement and away from the truck, the confusion and the feeling of loss were dissipating. With each heartbeat, the essence of himself, of the human called Peter Burke, seemed to return, as did a lot of his memories. Peter wondered at this for a moment or two and decided that would be a problem he could solve another time. He started to think hard about everything that had happened.

He remembered the intimacy that had grown between him and Neal these past few days. He wondered how they would be able to go back to being simply friends and partners. He couldn’t fool himself into thinking that, once they were back to human form (and he wasn’t going to let himself consider the idea that they would remain dogs forever), their relationship could remain the same. For Neal’s sacrifice alone, he was going to have to face what he felt. The thing was, he didn’t fully understand it. Neal was his friend, that was a given – and he could no longer imagine a life without him in it. He was as essential to him as Elizabeth.

At that, Peter paused. The name, the relationship, _her face_ – everything, every memory, every feeling that had disappeared during their journey through the forest, and then in the ride back, came flooding back to him. Something tore at him – the need to get home, to get to Elizabeth. She must be so worried about him.

He stood up. The arrow was back, he knew how to get _home_. And just at that moment, Neal took off after another dog. Peter didn’t even get a chance to bark, to try to get Neal to stop before he disappeared down the block and into the park.

Never in his life had he felt so conflicted. He wanted to get home. He was so close – but Neal, _Neal_ had to come with him. He couldn’t leave Neal behind, lost and alone.

Peter dithered for a few moments, and took off after Neal. No matter how urgently he wanted to get home, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t leave Neal behind. The man looked up from the truck and shouted for him to stay, and Peter had no problem ignoring him. By the time he got into the park, Neal had disappeared, and Peter couldn’t find his scent among the hundreds of other dogs that were in the park or had recently been there.

A small dog, a stupid little poodle that was groomed like a stupid stuffed animal, came running up to Peter, barking and yipping and jumping like she was on springs. It wasn’t hard to tell that this _thing_ thought she owned the park. But no matter how dominant the poodle’s behavior was, she was still ridiculous. Peter leaned in close. The thing was yapping like no one’s business, snarling too. Peter growled low in his throat and let his lip curl up. His teeth were bigger than the poodle’s eyes.

The little dog didn’t _quite_ back down – she stopped snarling and jumping at him, but she was still yapping and was still in his way. Peter barked, deep in his throat, once. Just once. The poodle stopped her antics and Peter looked her in the eyes. The silly little thing broke first, gave a small yip and ran off, her ridiculous tail, shaved except for a pom-pom at the tip, tucked between her legs.

Now to find Neal and take him home.

 

ELIZABETH DIDN’T REALLY KNOW WHAT TO THINK ABOUT MOZZIE’S SUGGESTION THAT NEAL and Peter had been transformed into dogs. Yes, as a theory it did make sense – except that human beings weren’t just magically changed into dogs. She wandered out onto her patio and sat down with a cup of tea, leaving Moz inside to … do whatever he needed to do.

She needed to think, and the more she thought about Moz’s theory, the more she started to believe it.

There was something she hadn’t told Mozzie. She hadn’t told him about her dreams, the ones she’d been having every night since Peter disappeared. The ones where someone was running through a forest, where there was sunlight and shadow – and always a sense of two minds, two people in the dream: the eyes she was seeing through, and another thing, right behind.

She thought, if Peter and Neal were dogs, maybe what she was seeing was them running. Or maybe just Peter running, with Neal behind him. It was crazy – crazier than her husband and his best friend being turned into dogs.

She sighed. A raven – or was it a crow – was perched on the utility pole in the back corner of the yard. The bird’s cry was loud, abrasive, angry. There was an answering cry from another crow that had settled on the roof. The two birds carried on, back and forth, screaming and cackling until Elizabeth thought she’d lose what was left of her sanity.

When Moz joined her, he waved his hand in the direction of the birds and they flew off.

“What are you thinking?” Moz interrupted the blessed silence.

Putting down the teacup with a distinct clink, she looked at him, a touch of annoyance in her eyes and in her voice. “What do you think I’m thinking about?”

“Ah.”

Elizabeth went on the offensive. “What, no obscure quote, no pithy comment? Come on, Mozzie. You drop this crazy theory in my lap, and then all you have to say is ‘ah’?” She immediately felt bad for attacking him, but she was so _angry_.

“El – I really don’t have anything else to say. Except that if I stop believing that Neal is going to come home, I somehow think he won’t.”

She stared at him.

Moz licked his lips. “Whether they are dogs or men, they are lost out there, somewhere. I don’t think I can find them – I don’t think anyone can find them. But I have to believe that they are alive and trying to get home to us. Faith in that is all I have.”

“I didn’t think you were a believer, Moz.” Her tone gentled.

“In god, in religion – no. But I believe in Neal – and yes, in Peter too. I believe that they’re alive and trying to get back to us. I can’t explain it. There is no logical basis for this belief. It’s more than hope, it’s more than a ward against despair. It’s something I see when I close my eyes in the dark, I see them out there, frightened, perhaps. And they only have our belief, our faith to keep them going.”

Moz laughed, a sour and self-loathing sound. “I’m crazy. I know that. I’m a strange and paranoid little man who’s so terrified of losing the one person that really matters to him that he’s making up fairy stories to justify his hopes.” He tried to stifle a sob at the last word, and El felt an answering ache rise in the back of her throat.

At that moment, she really didn’t care that Moz was uncomfortable with human touch. She wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened, and for an instant she thought he was going to break free of her hold. Instead, he just collapsed against her, shaking silently. Her own tears poured out, hot and endless, staining Mozzie’s back like blood from a knife wound.


	12. EARLY SUNDAY EVENING

PETER CROSSED AND RECROSSED THE PARK, TRYING TO PICK UP NEAL’S SCENT. It was impossible. There were too many other dogs – those that were in the park now, and those that had been through it during the days and weeks before. The scents of all of those dogs were a conflagration in his head, and he couldn’t think straight. As every moment passed, his hope of finding Neal’s trail faded – new dogs entered the park, they peed, they broke wind, they rubbed up against each other, mounting each other – releasing all sorts of intoxicating scents that masked whatever faint trail Neal had left behind.

How many times had he told Neal that no one gets left behind? And now he was about to do just that. There was no way he could find Neal like this, as a dog. One thing he’d never doubted during this entire journey was that getting home, getting back to Elizabeth, would transform him back into a man. He hadn’t shared this conviction with Neal, and that was a guilt he’d have to expiate somehow.

At least as a man, he could ask questions. He had the authority of his badge, he knew he could depend on his team to help him find Neal. He didn’t think about how he was going to explain the metamorphosis – but he could depend on Jones and Diana at the very least to do what he asked, even if they didn’t believe that the dog they were searching for was actually Neal Caffrey.

Peter sat down next to the Martyrs’ Monument, panting, exhausted. He was hungry, angry, defeated and simply worn out. He knew he had no choice, but he didn’t know how he was going to live with himself. How he could just leave Neal behind.

 

THIS MORNING’S FAILURE ATE AT HUGHES’ HEART. He’d been so damned certain they’d find Peter and Neal in Matamoras. The only solid lead to their disappearance – and it turned out to be a damned coincidence. Eric Whitman was definitely an electronics whiz, and he’d been in the pay of that thug, Ryan Wilkes, right up until the time that Wilkes had kidnapped Lindsey Gless. It seemed the man got squeamish when it came to kidnapping children and disappeared himself until after Wilkes’ trial and sentencing.

They found him right where the electroshock weapons parts were delivered, which turned out to be the headquarters of a hush-hush defense contractor in a warehouse in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn. Whitman was very forthcoming, particularly with his new livelihood on the line. He had heard from an old friend that Wilkes wanted Caffrey dead, but he just didn’t have the juice to make it happen.

A team of interrogators was sent to interview Wilkes at the Federal Penitentiary in Lewisburg, but Hughes thought it a waste of time and resources. Peter and Neal had very convincingly smashed that crime ring, and Wilkes didn’t even have the funds to pay for an attorney. No, they had no leads, no clues that meant anything, and he was about to tell Peter’s wife that after five days of searching, they were no closer to finding her husband than they’d been the afternoon he disappeared.

Berrigan and Jones were with him, and the part of him that was a top manager noted that these two agents would need both commendations and promotions, even though this mission was a failure. Bile rose at the sudden awareness that, come Monday morning, he was going to have to reassign cases, get the team’s focus back on financial crimes, not the search for their missing agent. And get a replacement for Peter.

But then he thought about the ring he had found – Peter’s wedding band. Of all the senseless things about the disappearance of his friend, this was the most senseless of all. Why would kidnappers bother to take his wedding band off and toss it away? He closed his eyes and tried to reason this out. He kept seeing the ring just falling off of Peter’s hand, but that made no sense either. Hughes rubbed the warm gold between his fingers – he needed to give this to Elizabeth.

It would break her heart.

The command outpost the FBI had set up on the block was still manned, but with a single agent. The unit would be removed tomorrow. Hughes shook his head – it was all about resources. Maybe if word leaked out to the media about a missing federal agent, he could keep the Bureau’s focus on active recovery, rather than letting it shift to the local field office and the Pennsylvania State Police’s homicide team.

Mounting the nine steps up to Peter and Elizabeth’s front door felt like climbing to the top of the Empire State Building. Hughes had barely taken his finger off the bell when the door was flung open.

The light in Elizabeth’s eyes dimmed when she saw him.

“May we come in?”

Peter’s wife stepped aside and the three agents went into the house.

Hughes instantly noticed Neal’s small, strange friend, his supposed lawyer, the guy who had given Berrigan the idea about using a high powered shock to unlock the tracking cuff. The man was desperately trying to blend into the paint, and it gave him a bit of perverse delight to greet him directly. “Mr. Havisham. How are you holding up?”

He didn’t bother waiting for an answer before turning back to Peter’s wife. “Elizabeth…”

“Reese, do you have any news? Anything?” She held out her hands to him, her voice desperate.

He shook his head. “We thought we had a solid lead this morning, but it turned out to be nothing.” His heart sank even further at the expression on her face.

“What happens now?”

He dreaded that question.

“Elizabeth, the Bureau is doing everything it can to try and locate Peter and Neal. But for now, the investigation is being officially handed back to the Philadelphia field office, which will coordinate with the Pennsylvania State Police.”

“You think they’re dead.”

He shook his head again. “No, I don’t. I don’t know what happened to them, but I can’t believe that they are dead.”

“It’s only been five days, Reese.”

“I know, but five days is a long time given the complete lack of evidence – no ransom, no proof of life. We are at the point that unless we turn it over to Missing Persons, we will have to treat this as a homicide. I was able to keep it within the White Collar division as long as I could, but the Assistant Director has overruled me and James Bancroft. We both want to keep going, but without a solid lead, there’s just nothing I can do.”

Havisham finally spoke up. “What will happen if the local heroes can’t find anything?”

He turned and looked at Neal’s friend. “There’s no fixed time for an investigation, but if the Philadelphia field office turns up nothing in a reasonable amount of time, resources will be scaled back.”

“Nice weasel words, Suit.”

The man was getting angry, and Hughes didn’t blame him.

“Over a dozen years in the Bureau and Peter Burke becomes a cold case in, what, two weeks? If you were just looking for Neal, you’d have the whole Department of Justice after him because he’s an escaped felon. But Burke goes missing and you just ‘scale back resources’ when you can’t find him?”

Berrigan spoke up for the first time. “Moz, watch your mouth. We’re doing all we can, and then some. You have no idea how Agent Hughes has fought to keep this case under his jurisdiction. The Marshals wanted to put a shoot-on-sight order out on Neal. And Peter means as much to us as Neal does to you.”

Hughes fought not to smile at the young agent’s fervent defense. “You are wrong that we are just letting this die. Peter is a personal friend – I’d give my life for him – but I can’t keep directing the investigation. I shouldn’t have been allowed to take it this far, but Peter and Neal have very strong partisans in the local administration, and they’ve allowed me to keep this investigation under my control far longer than they should have.”

“Do you trust the agents in the Philadelphia office? Do you trust them to continue the search?” Elizabeth asked him, heartbreak in every word.

He turned back to her. “Peter is a fellow agent, and that will always make this a priority case. It won’t just disappear.”

“You aren’t answering my question, Reese.”

Hughes knew he was deflecting. “Elizabeth, I’m sorry.” He sighed. “I don’t know the agents in the Philly office that have been assigned to the case. But I’ve been personally assured by the SAIC that this case will be given top priority. Like I said, Peter’s a well-liked and well-respected agent. That alone will guarantee that this won’t get buried. And I will personally keep following up, as often as I have to, to make sure this stays a priority.”

“Until they have to ‘scale back resources.’ ”

Hughes didn’t say anything. Havisham was absolutely correct.

He caught Jones’ and Berrigan’s eyes and signaled that it was time to leave. They were all exhausted and could use some down time. But Hughes had one more thing to do before leaving. “Elizabeth. When I was with the search teams in Pennsylvania, I found this.” He held out Peter’s wedding band.

There was dead silence in the Burkes’ living room as she took it from his hand. Then all hell broke loose as the doorbell rang and rang and rang.

 

PETER MADE HIS WAY OUT OF FORT GREENE PARK, his movements slow and painful. He carefully detoured around the playgrounds and ball fields, areas that were generally restricted to humans. It would be a tragic irony if he were picked up by Animal Control just a few blocks from home. The sun was getting low on the horizon, but he had no idea what time it was. He knew it was June, when the days were long and the sun didn’t set until well after eight, but that didn’t help. And it really didn’t matter. What did matter was getting out of this park, onto DeKalb and then home.

He thought that it wasn’t so much the arrow in his head as good luck that allowed him to find the DeKalb Avenue gate without too much searching. The road wasn’t busy, so maybe it was a weekend. Peter could remember that it had been four nights since the transformation, but he couldn’t remember what day it was. It could be Saturday, it could be Sunday, and regardless he was just thankful that he’d be able to get across the street without getting hit by a car.

He was oblivious to the stares he was getting on the four block walk-trot to his home. By the time he reached the 4200 block of DeKalb Avenue, the pain in his body was nearly unbearable. He stood at the base of the steps leading up to his front door – there were nine of them – unsure if he’d be able to make that climb. Through the living room curtains, he could see people inside, which hopefully meant that Elizabeth was home.

 _Elizabeth – Elizabeth – Elizabeth._ Her name pounded in his head, in syncopation to the beat of his aching heart. It was the goad he needed to climb up those stairs, to press his snout against the doorbell and to stay alive long enough to see her once more.

 

HER HEART STOPPED AND STARTED WITH EACH REPEATED CHIME. Against all reason, all rational belief, all logic, she knew that it was Peter on the other side of the door. Satchmo started barking and scrabbling at the inner door, and her hopes were instantly confirmed – Satch was a lazy beast and never got excited unless Peter was coming home from a long trip.

Jones grabbed the Lab’s collar as she opened the inside door, and then yanked open the outer one. A huge brown dog, filthy and emaciated, rushed inside and collapsed right by the door.

She heard Moz whisper, “Neal?”

Shaking her head, she said, “No, it’s Peter. It’s Peter.” The others in the room murmured their confusion, their disbelief. Even Satchmo was taken aback, unsure about who or what this stranger was.

Falling to the floor next to the beast, she stroked Peter’s massive head. He looked at her, right into her eyes, and whimpered.

Her eyes filled with tears – this time joyful ones at her husband’s return. Others might not believe, Hughes and Diana and Jones might scoff, but she _knew_. It was his eyes. As alien as the rest of his body might be, these were Peter’s eyes.

She bent low and kissed him, on the ridge between his brows, burying her hands in his fur. Her tears fell freely, dripping off her cheeks onto Peter’s face, and he shuddered.

Elizabeth felt a shock like the pulse from touching the terminals of a nearly spent battery with wet hands. It went through her and into Peter – or maybe it came from Peter and was pouring into her, she wasn’t sure.

The pulses became stronger, rolling on and on, keeping her connected to her husband, and she just couldn’t let go. The body underneath her hands began to convulse, pulling itself apart, and she wanted to scream for it to stop but the shock had seized up her throat, and it was hard to draw anything but the shallowest of breaths.

Peter’s body arched, those paws and legs spasming against the wood floor, head was thrown back, teeth bared in agony. Frozen as she was, she could no more close her eyes than she could take her hands away, Elizabeth could see the moment the change began. It wasn’t like something in a horror movie – no special effects wizard would ever be able to capture this metamorphosis from dog to human. It was little things first: the spacing of the eyes, then how the long snout flattened. Fur receded and became a weeklong growth of facial hair.

The huge barrel chest collapsed into a human torso, the forelegs took on muscle mass, the paws spread into palms and fingers. She couldn’t see the rest of the change, but when it finally came to an end; her hands were resting on her the filthy, naked and bruised body of her husband.

He looked at her, lost and weary and terribly, terribly sad.

“Elizabeth…”

At that word, everything seemed to happen at once, as if time had no meaning. Hughes and Jones and Diana were crowding around her, Satchmo was barking and howling and trying to lick everyone. Moz just shoved his way between everyone and knelt across from her. She couldn’t stop him from grabbing at Peter.

“Where’s Neal? Where the hell is Neal?”

“Lost… I’m so sorry, I lost him.” Peter struggled – he tried to reach out, to lever himself upright, but the effort was too much. His eyes rolled up into his head and he passed out.

 

NEAL HUDDLED IN THE STRANGE DEN HE HAD FOUND. It smelled _bad_ , like fear and pain, and he wanted to leave it in the worst way. But he couldn’t. He needed to stay here and wait for Peter to find him. He shivered in the shadowy darkness, waiting patiently, waiting despite the fear, despite the thirst and the hunger and the aching loneliness. He listened to the sounds outside his den, not knowing what they meant. They weren’t pack, and they weren’t other dogs, but they frightened him all the same. There was anger there – that he recognized. There was desperation – he felt that too.

There was also the voice inside him, the one that had screamed at him not to run, not to leave Peter. He didn’t want to hear that voice again. It reminded him that he had disobeyed; he’d left his pack, his leader behind. Maybe Peter wasn’t going to come for him. Maybe Peter was angry, like those voices outside. Maybe this was punishment. Or maybe Peter was hurt and _couldn’t_ come for him.

Neal turned inwards, trying to ignore the fear and the voice. He whimpered to himself and thought of the joys of running in the shadowed forest, Peter ahead of him, Peter beside him. He thought of fresh cold water and the pulse of hot blood in his mouth after a kill, but none of these thoughts comforted him as he laid curled up, nose tucked under his tail. The sun dropped below the tree line and the darkness became complete. Neal waited and waited for Peter, his pack mate, his leader, to come and take him home.

The night passed and Peter didn’t come.


	13. MONDAY MORNING

NEAL’S SAFE PLACE REALLY WASN’T ALL THAT SAFE. It was an ancient, burned-out car somewhat lost in the bushes that framed the edges of the Walt Whitman Houses, one of the oldest projects in Brooklyn. Although it was a mere mile from the Pratt Institute and several other august cultural landmarks, the Whitman Houses had resisted the renaissance that blossomed throughout many of the residential areas of Brooklyn.

That was not to say that these projects were a hotbed of drugs or crime or lawlessness. The COMSTAT rating for the Whitman Houses was only slightly higher than those for the rest of the Fort Greene neighborhood, but the general decrepitude of the collection of massive brick buildings gave the whole area a feeling of despair.

And despite all that, children still laughed and played and pretended they were great military leaders or starship captains or superheroes. The late-June day was one of seemingly endless daylight; it was, in fact the morning of the summer solstice, when great magic could be performed.

The two young boys and their older sister heading out to play knew nothing about that. All they cared about was that it was almost summertime and although it was Monday, they didn’t have to go to school (the big kids were taking tests, and the little ones got to stay home). It was hot in their apartment, and who wanted to stay inside when it was so beautiful outdoors?

They bypassed the playground with the really littles, their stinky diapers and their mommies, and headed out to their secret hideout. If their mother knew that they were playing pirates in the rusted-out old car, they’d get scolded until their ears rang and quite possibly sent to bed without ice cream for a week.

Even though Kitty was the eldest, it was Joseph, or Little-J to everyone who knew him (not to be confused with Big-J, his older cousin, a bully who lived down the hall and loved to terrorize the littles and the middles), who always took the lead.

“We gonna play pirates, Lil’-J? Ya gotta let me be tha’ captain tadah.” His twin, Charlie, spoke funny, which drove his mamma and grandma crazy. But that was because he was slow. He had a hard time being born (or at least that’s what his grandma told him). Kitty called Charlie Slow-Poke, but Little-J never made fun of his brother. Even though Charlie was slow, he really wasn’t all that stupid – he didn’t have to go to the special classes or anything like that. He just needed to take his time. Little-J and Charlie were identical, which was kind of freaky. But Little-J wasn’t one to let an advantage go to waste. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d pretended to be slow and a little stupid if he was caught doing something wrong. It was good enough to fool the teachers at least, and would usually get him out of detention. But his daddy and his mamma and grandma, they were too smart to be fooled, and besides, he didn’t really want Charlie to get punished for his shenanigans.

He loved his brother, and his classmates learned that it was a bad idea to tease him about Charlie, or to prank Charlie, because Little-J would come back at them with everything he had. Since he could walk, his mamma and his grandma told him that he needed to look after Charlie, to keep him safe and out of trouble. Little-J suspected that Kitty got the same lecture, because she was just as fierce when looking after him and Charlie.

When they got to their secret hideout, it was Little-J who found the surprise inside their “ship.” He’d deny it, but Little-J screamed like a girl when he pulled open the door and was confronted with a huge pair of glowing blue eyes. He shut the door right quick.

“Wha’s tha’ matter?”

“There’s something in there.” Little-J’s voice shook. Just a little bit.

“A monsta?” Charlie wasn’t scared – maybe because he didn’t know better. He just pushed Little-J out of the way and stuck his head inside the busted-out window of the old car. He saw a pair of big blue eyes and a hairy snout, and asked, “Are you a monsta’?”

Kitty took her responsibilities as big sister very seriously with both her brothers. She pulled them away from the wreck. “There could be a bum in there.” Kitty knew that most of the homeless in the area were harmless, but there was no point in taking any risks.

“No, it’s not human. It’s a werewolf.” A few nights ago, the three of them had snuck into the living room and watched _True Blood_. The next morning, Grandma gave them all the business for messing up the cable box, but she didn’t know what they’d watched.

“Don’t be silly. There’s no such things as werewolves.” Curiosity won out over caution, and Kitty peeked inside and gasped. “It’s a dog...just a doggie.” It wasn’t just a dog, though – it was the biggest dog she had ever seen. She liked dogs, except for her aunt’s smelly little poodle that peed on everything. She held out her hand, palm up.

The dog just blinked at her.

“Come on, come out.” To her disappointment, the dog wouldn’t move.

“Little-J, open the other side and give it a push.”

“You sure that’s such a good idea, Kitty?”

“Just do it. The poor thing could be stuck, or hurt. Come on, help me get the dog out of there,” Kitty ordered her brothers.

Charlie and Little-J struggled to open the other door, which was buried in the bushes, but finally it flew open. Charlie, ever fearless, climbed in and started to pet the dog. Like Kitty, he really liked dogs. Even the stinky poodle. He petted and scratched and even hugged the big beast. Little-J stood behind him, ready to yank his brother away at the merest sign of danger.

“Charlie, get out of there!” Kitty yelled.

“No!” Charlie flung his arms around the dog. “He gonna run away. Don’ want dog to go.”

Little-J spoke up – Kitty could get too bossy. “Let him be. Charlie’s having fun.”

She frowned at her brother. It really wasn’t a good idea for Charlie to be playing with a strange dog inside a busted car. But she watched and the dog didn’t seem to mind. It had kind of a stupid look to it, sort of like Charlie.

Kitty reached inside and scratched the dog’s ears. It had big eyes and floppy ears and fur that went every which way. It was filthy too, and she bet that Charlie was going to be covered in dirty dog hair (which meant she would get it for letting him play with the animal). She sighed; sometimes she hated being the eldest. She finally got a tentative lick, and she wondered what’d happened to the dog. Its eyes were so sad, she wanted to cry when it looked at her.

Kitty and the boys were so involved with the dog that they didn’t hear the footsteps coming up the walk and onto the grass.

“Whatcha’ doing?”

Holy crap. It was Big-J. And Big-J hated dogs.

Kitty stood up and looked Big-J in the face. Even though they were cousins – her daddy and his mom were brother and sister – Grandma had arguments with Daddy about Big-J, and she always told Kitty and Little-J to stay away from their cousin, and particularly to keep Charlie away from him.

He _did things_ – he liked to hurt the littles and the middles. Not just like other kids did, with pranks and rough-housing. He liked to hurt you in ways that you couldn’t show, or that seemed like accidents. Kitty knew that her aunt’s poodle peed on everything because Big-J liked to kick the little dog in the nuts – she’d seen him do it. And he’d seen her watching him. He didn’t say anything, just made a face and spat on the little dog.

And now he discovered the three of them – no, the four of them. Even though he should have been in school, taking those tests.

“I said, whatcha’ doing?”

Little-J crawled into the car, dragging Charlie down and out of sight. Smart boys.

“We’re not doing anything.” She made sure she kept eye contact with the older boy. Grandma said that Big-J was like a dog – if you could stare him down, he’d back off. She also kept herself between Big-J and the burned-out car.

“You’re hiding something. Whatcha’ got back there?” He reached around, or tried to. Kitty blocked him as best she could.

“Nothing, just an old car that the boys like to play in. You have no business here, Joseph Holliman.”

“Yeah, if I don’t, then you don’t either – and I think you’re hiding something.” Her cousin was just too big, and he shoved her to the ground with little effort.

Kitty tried to crawl between Big-J and the car, but he kicked her hard in the side.

“What have we got here?” Three pairs of eyes stared at him. “A brat, an idiot and a fucking dog.” He said the last with vicious loathing. “I don’t like brats or idiots … or dogs.”

Kitty scrambled and stood up. She pushed at Big-J – a futile move, he just knocked her to the ground again. This time, he knelt down right on her, one knee digging into her stomach.

Little-J scrabbled out of the other side of car. Ignoring Kitty’s shouts to run away, he launched himself onto his cousin, and Charlie followed right after him. The two boys were no match for their cousin’s brute strength, but they were persistent, pulling and yanking on him. Big-J just swatted at them with closed fists; he hit Charlie in the face and Little-J in the stomach, all the while kneeling on top of Kitty.

“Don’t know why you’re making such a fuss over an ugly old mutt.” He reached in and grabbed at the dog, which pulled itself back as far as it could.

“You’re not getting away so easily. I’m in the mood for some fun.” He managed to get hold of the scruff of the dog’s neck and pulled hard. It yelped and tried to retreat, but Big-J held on fast.

Kitty managed to pull herself out from under the boy’s knee and flung herself onto his back, trying to get him away from the car and the poor, defenseless dog. Her brothers recovered enough to throw themselves on top of Big-J too, kicking and screaming, and finally the older boy let go of the dog and turned on them.

“You’re not gonna interfere with my fun – and you’re not going to tell nobody.”

Kitty stared in horror as her cousin reached into his pocket and pulled out something that looked at first like a pistol, but wasn’t. It was a stun gun – the housing police carried them. “Where’d you get that?”

“Stole it, where’d you think I got it?”

Kitty made sure the boys were behind her. “You don’t dare use that.”

“Or what, bitch? You gonna run home to your mommy? You won’t be able to run, not when I get done with you.”

Just as Big-J reached for her, the dog erupted out of the car. The boy paused for a second – he hadn’t realized how big the fucking dog was. The animal tackled him, but strangely, it didn’t bite, it just kept him from going after Kitty.

That suited Big-J just fine. He wrestled around, and kicked the dog off him, catching him in the belly. When the animal came back at him, Big-J reached out, pushed the Taser against the dog’s throat and pressed.

The dog convulsed and collapsed. The boy sneered. “Some vicious dog you are. Have another.” This time, he pressed the weapon against the dog’s chest, right above his heart. When he pulled the trigger, the air was filled with the stench of burning fur and feces, as the animal voided its bowels.

Big-J got up, kicked the dog’s body and walked away.

 


	14. TUESDAY MORNING

PETER REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS SLOWLY, AND CONFUSION WARRED WITH AN OVERWHELMING SENSE OF GRIEF. He was warm and comfortable, his bed was soft and there were blankets and pillows and someone was holding his … hand. Peter opened his eyes to find himself in a dimly lit private hospital room, attached to a variety of monitors and IVs, and to his wife.

“Peter?”

He turned towards the sound of her voice. During the entire ordeal, Peter had never allowed himself to doubt that he’d hear it again, but he had forgotten the sound of his name from her lips. It was a benediction, a blessing. He didn’t even try to stop the tears that welled up and poured down his face.

“Elizabeth?” His own voice was harsh, scratchy from disuse.

She let go of his hand for a brief moment and the room brightened. Elizabeth came back and leaned over the bed, kissing his face, his eyelids, his dry lips. “Peter, thank god. Thank god you’re back, you’re all right.”

He tried to raise himself up, but was appalled at the weakness of this body. She pressed a button and the head of the bed slowly lifted him to a sitting angle.

“What happened?”

“Don’t you remember?”

Peter closed his eyes. He remembered everything up until … “I came home, you were there. You let me in.”

“Yes…”

There was a pregnant pause, and Peter was afraid to articulate his next thought. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream born of a long illness. But it wasn’t.

“You were a dog, Peter. You were a huge dog.”

He let out a shuddering sigh.

“But I knew it was you. I could see your eyes – it was you.”

Peter could hear the millions of questions that Elizabeth wasn’t asking. Questions that he was not prepared to answer. Not yet, not now, not here.

She brushed her hand against his face, and gave a light and awkward laugh. “You need a shave, love.”

He looked at her, the urgency that drove him back to consciousness propelling him to action. “No, what I need is to get out of this damn hospital bed and find Neal.” He coughed against the dryness in his throat, but the thought of drinking anything made him ill.

“Honey, relax…”

“They’ve found him?” He was filled with relief, but was immediately brought down to earth.

“No, but the entire team is looking for him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were missing for more than five days. They’ve been searching for the two of you…”

“Damn it, Elizabeth…” Peter ignored the hurt look in his wife’s eyes. “They don’t even have the slightest clue where to begin. Neal’s in Brooklyn – he’s somewhere near here. He’s lost and alone and he won’t be able to find his way home.” He struggled to get out of bed, but the bars were raised on both sides.

“Peter, please calm down. Hughes and Diana and Jones will be back in a minute, you can tell them everything.”

“No, I can’t wait. They won’t be able to find him. You don’t understand, Elizabeth. I left him behind, after everything he did, after every sacrifice. I left him behind to come home to you.” Peter’s voice cracked, but his resolve to get up seemed to be fueled by his anguish. He started pushing on the bed frame.

“Peter, please. Please – you’ll hurt yourself.”

He ignored the anxiety in Elizabeth’s voice.

“I’ve got to get out of here, I’ve got to find him. You don’t understand, you don’t understand.” Peter threw off Elizabeth’s restraining hand.

“Tell me, Peter. Make me understand.”

All he could keep saying was, “I left him, I left him behind. He’s lost and frightened and I left him behind.” Peter thought he was going to break apart from the grief.

“Peter, it’s Neal, remember? Whether he’s human or …” He knew why Elizabeth was pausing “… dog, he’s still Neal, right?”

“No, he’s not. Not now, not any longer. You don’t understand.”

“Peter, please. You keep telling me that, so make me understand.”

Peter took a deep, shuddering breath. “Neal’s not _Neal_. Not the way I was always _myself_. He’s a dog, with a dog’s mind, and instincts and intelligence. He’s …” Peter stopped himself from repeating the refrain that’d been endlessly running through his head. He wanted to explain to Elizabeth what it meant, what Neal sacrificed to make sure that Peter got home, but he couldn’t put it into words. Instead, he got himself tangled in the wires and tubes and starting pulling on everything. He had to get out of there. He had to go NOW.

“Peter, stop it. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

In his panicked state, he ignored her and yanked at the leads, setting the monitor alarms off. He didn’t seem to notice them, or Elizabeth running out of the room. Suddenly there was a large set of hands on him, restraining him against the bed.

“Mr. Burke, we need you to calm down.” The voice came from a large man in patterned scrubs. Peter didn’t care if he was a nurse, an orderly or the chief of medicine. He needed to get up, get dressed and get out of this damn hospital.

“It’s _Agent_ Burke, and don’t tell me to calm down. My partner is out there, he’s in danger and he needs me.”

“I’m sure your colleagues are looking for him. You’ve been through quite an ordeal yourself. You need to just relax and get better.”

Peter glared at the man. “You don’t know a _goddamned fucking_ thing – and if you don’t get these damn tubes out of me now, I’m going to take them out myself.”

He ignored Elizabeth’s shocked gasp at his profanity, and grabbed hold of the man’s wrist. Even from his supine position, and in a weakened state, he was able to apply pressure at the right points to get him to release his hold. Peter tried to take advantage and slapped away the other hand. But damn it to hell, he was so debilitated, he couldn’t get up and off the bed.

The nurse (Peter finally noticed the stethoscope) called out and several more people came into his room – these were definitely orderlies.

“Agent Burke, if you don’t calm down, we are going to have to put you in restraints.”

“Like hell you will.”

“Peter, please, please, just relax. Hughes and the others will be back in a moment, you can talk to them, tell them what they need to do to find Neal.”

“Elizabeth, I am begging you… ” He became desperate. “Don’t let them do this. You know I have to find Neal. Please, please.” Peter finally broke down, reaching the limits of his physical and emotional reserves.

The nurse nodded at the orderlies and they put his hands in padded restraints. “Agent Burke, I’m going to call your doctor for an order for Ativan. It will calm you down, let you relax and start healing.”

This started Peter up again, and he tugged uselessly at the restraints. “You aren’t giving me a sedative, you expressly do NOT have my permission to give me a sedative.”

The nurse looked from him to Elizabeth.

“Honey, you need it. You aren’t going to do Neal or yourself any good if you collapse or hurt yourself trying to get out of this bed. Listen to me, Peter. You are in no shape to go anywhere. You didn’t make it home just to kill yourself trying to rescue Neal. Again.”

The last word was said sotto voce, but Peter heard Elizabeth’s aggravation quite clearly.

“El, what are you getting at?” Peter’s voice was quiet, and, for the first time since he woke up, controlled and free of emotion.

“Nothing, Peter. Nothing except that you’ve made a career out of rescuing Neal from his follies and foibles. You’re home safe and sound now.”

Completely mindful of the nurse and orderlies, Peter kept his mouth shut until they left the room.

“Close the door, Elizabeth. Please.” He used the intervening moments to rein in his anger. But when she came back to his bedside, he couldn’t look at her.

“Peter, I’m sorry. That was wrong and uncalled for. Neal’s your partner, your friend. You have every right to worry about him – but you have to let others help you. You’re in no condition to get out of this hospital bed.”

Peter gritted his teeth against the calm reason of his wife’s voice. “You’re right that I’m home safe and sound – but I wouldn’t have been without Neal. He kept me alive, he saved my life time after time. I’d have died without him, and he’s out there, alone, lost …” Peter didn’t want to think of the sacrifice Neal made for him. Tears coursed unchecked down his face and into the scruff that still cloaked his face.

“Elizabeth, get me out of here.” He knew he was being irrational, but if he didn’t find Neal, he didn’t know what was going to happen to him. “Please.”

“I will, honey. As soon as you’re better, I’ll take you home.” He closed his eyes as she wiped his tears away, and when she took his hand again, he held on tightly.

The door opened and a kindly, middle-aged woman in a white coat came in. “Agent Burke, good to see you awake. I’m Doctor Stein. Your nurse tells me that you’re quite agitated.”

Peter tried to keep control over himself and his emotions. “I’m okay now.”

She checked his pulse and looked at his chart, hmmm-ing in the disturbing way that doctors tend to do. “I haven’t been told everything about what happened to you – ”

When Peter started to interrupt her, she held up a hand. “And that’s okay – there are some things that I don’t need to know. But I do know that whatever has happened to you has taken a huge toll on you physically. There is a reason why you are in the ICU. You’ve lost more than twenty-five pounds, almost all of it muscle mass. Your entire body chemistry is out of balance – the results of your blood work are consistent with those of a long-term POW, and you are probably going to need some rehabilitative treatment. If you insist on getting up and out of bed, and leaving this hospital, you are at serious risk of causing severe and possibly permanent damage. I’ll be blunt, Agent Burke. You can give yourself a serious heart attack with very little effort if you don’t let yourself heal. Do you understand?”

Peter nodded.

She was blunt. “You’ll be here for a few days, but I think we can get you out of ICU tonight – if you follow orders. I know you are very anxious about your partner, but you won’t do him any good if you’re dead.” The doctor pulled out a syringe and a bottle. “I want to give you some Ativan. It will help you relax. Believe me, the healing power of good sleep can’t be understated.”

Before Peter could speak, Elizabeth interrupted.

“Doctor, can you please hold off on the sedative for just a little while? Peter’s colleagues are waiting to talk to him. They had just gone down for coffee before he woke up. It’s very important. If you sedate Peter now, he’s only going to be in worse shape when the drug wears off.”

She looked from wife to husband, and nodded. “Okay, but it’s got to be brief – no more than ten minutes.”

The doctor left, and Peter turned to his wife in gratitude. “Thank you.”

She kissed him again and went to find Hughes and company.


	15. LATE TUESDAY MORNING

HE COULDN’T SAY WHAT HE HATED MORE, THE SMELL OF A HOSPITAL OR THE TASTE OF HOSPITAL COFFEE. Despite his twenty-plus years in White Collar, Reese Hughes had spent way too many hours in hospital waiting rooms, in lounges and in hallways, waiting for news about colleagues. It was part of being an FBI agent: the risks sometimes far outweighed the rewards.

But today – today was a good day after all. Peter was alive. That was all he wanted to focus on: his friend, his fellow agent, was home. His logical, rational mind shied away from the events that brought Peter here, to the ICU in Brooklyn Hospital, but he couldn’t block out the memory of the huge dog bursting into the house, collapsing and becoming Peter Burke.

When you put together all the evidence, the only logical explanation for Peter and Neal’s disappearance was completely irrational. But apparently not impossible. Peter Burke had turned into a dog. And so had Neal Caffrey.

He took a sip of coffee, and his stomach knotted up in protest. He tossed the nearly full cup in the trash and gestured to the two waiting agents (who’d been smart enough to get tea – he’d have to remember that the next time).

“Let’s get back upstairs. Maybe Peter’s awake.”

Berrigan and Jones had kept their thoughts to themselves, though it was easy to see how overjoyed they were at Peter’s relatively safe return. But their job wasn’t done yet.

“Any word on Caffrey?”

Jones answered. “I’ve had the office put out an alert for a stray wolfhound to every animal shelter, vet and precinct from Pennsylvania to Brooklyn, but that covers a lot of territory.”

“Wolfhound? That’s a big assumption, Agent Jones.”

“Sir, not really. The fur inside of Peter’s discarded clothes was typed as wolfhound, and the same for Neal’s. They were two different dogs, same breed.”

“I didn’t think you could type a dog breed through DNA.”

“Yes sir, you can even buy testing kits online, but we didn’t have to. The AKC has been keeping a database of animal DNA for the past decade, and they were able to get us the information to use fairly quickly.”

Hughes shook his head. He didn’t mind being corrected by the younger agent. It was just that he felt old and out of touch for the first time in his career.

The rest of the walk back to the ICU was done in silence, but everyone perked up when they saw Elizabeth Burke outside of Peter’s room, with a smile on her face.

“He’s awake?”

“Yes, and he needs to talk to you.”

Hughes and the other agents were ready to barge into the room, but Elizabeth grabbed his arm. “Be careful with him, Reese. He’s very weak, and needs to stay calm.”

“I understand, Elizabeth.”

“I don’t think he’s ready to talk about what happened. Peter’s terrified for Neal and he tried to rip his IV out and leave the hospital. You have to find Neal, please. Otherwise, I don’t know what is going to happen to Peter.”

Hughes nodded. Finding Neal was a priority, and not just for Neal’s sake. Without Caffrey in hand, there was no way that he’d be able to save Peter’s career. He didn’t say any of this to Elizabeth, of course.

“The doctor will be back in about ten minutes – she wants to sedate him. You have that long to talk. Please, please don’t upset him.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t.”

He went into Peter’s room, Berrigan and Jones behind him, _like two faithful hounds_ , he thought with no small sense of irony.

Peter looked like crap. It was hard to believe that this was the same man he’d said “good night” to less than a week ago. He was thin to the point of emaciation, his skin grayish, hair and beard overgrown, but his eyes were definitely Peter Burke’s eyes, clear and determined.

“Reese!” Peter tried to get up.

“Peter, relax. Elizabeth made me promise not to let you get too excited.”

He appreciated the look of disgust that crossed his friend’s face.

Peter plunged right in. “You have to find Neal. He’s out there, and he won’t be able to get home without me.”

“We’re working on alerting every LEA and animal shelter from Pike County to Kings about a grey Irish wolfhound. We’ll find him.”

“No! You’re wasting resources – Neal was with me when we got to Brooklyn. I lost him in Fort Greene Park.”

“What?”

“We made it to Brooklyn, and got separated. Just before I came home. You need to be looking in Brooklyn. Get in touch with veterinarians, animal shelters, the local PD, the park police in Fort Greene.” As Peter’s voice trailed off, the sound of Jones’ pen scratching out notes was the loudest sound in the room.

Hughes wanted to get the full story about their trip, but that could wait. He turned to the waiting agents. “You got that?”

Jones and Berrigan nodded.

“Wait, wait. You should contact Captain Dan Shattuck out of the One-Five in Manhattan. He’ll put you in touch with the Humane Law Enforcement division in New York. His sister is on the ASPCA’s Board of Directors – they have oversight over the HLE. She can mobilize them.”

Hughes couldn’t help but notice that Peter was reaching the end of his endurance.

“We’ll find him. I promise.”

“Reese, you have to. He’s out there, and I don’t know what will happen to him if you don’t get him back to me soon.”

A thought occurred to Hughes. “Is it possible that Neal … became human when you turned back into a man?” He didn’t say that, if that had happened, Neal would be trackerless and able to just disappear.

Peter thought for a moment, giving the idea serious consideration. “No, I don’t think so. If he had, he’d have gone to the house. He wouldn’t have run.”

“You’re sure?” Hughes knew that Peter’s faith in Neal was absolute, but he didn’t quite share it.

“Neal has four months left – he has no reason to run. He wouldn’t have risked that, not with so little left to go. Not this time.”

“Ah, you are right.” He mollified Peter, but didn’t quite believe that Caffrey wouldn’t run.

Peter looked like he had more to say. “There’s something I’m forgetting, something I should tell you, but I can’t remember …”

At that moment, Peter’s doctor came in. “I’m sorry, but your time is up. Agent Burke needs his rest.”

Hughes nodded. “Peter, we’ll keep you updated. But rest, please. Your wife will have our heads on pikes if you don’t.”

“Find Neal, and I’ll be able to rest.” The urgency in his friend’s voice was gut-wrenching.

Peter tried to reach out, and Reese winced at the sight of the arm restraints. He squeezed Peter’s shoulder.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll be in touch with any updates.”

Peter seemed pathetically grateful. Hughes couldn’t wait to get out of there – it was too damn unnerving to see his friend so diminished.

The doctor practically pushed them out the door, and as Jones and Berrigan made their goodbyes, with promises to find Neal, she stuck a needle into Peter’s IV. Hughes thought he was asleep before they got out the door.

 

WHEN NEAL WOKE UP, HE WAS DISORIENTED, GROGGY AND WEAK, AND THE PAIN WAS TERRIBLE. He blinked once, twice – but most everything was in shades of gray. He recognized the electric green of blinking machine lights and the pale blue of the walls, but everything else was wrong. He struggled, but his arms and legs wouldn’t cooperate, and even the slight movement he managed sent daggers of burning agony through his chest and neck.

He closed his eyes again and tried to remember what had happened. It came back in a rush.

Driving with Peter, arguing about having to go out to the wilds of Pennsylvania. The deer jumping in front of the car. The terrible scream the animal made – its struggles on the road. The sickness he felt, the guilt he felt – if he hadn’t distracted Peter, he would have had time to swerve and avoid hitting the deer. Peter killed it.

His memory of what happened after that was like some fantastic horror movie. Their transformation – his brain struggled to comprehend that they had become dogs. He remembered the change that swept over Peter, even as his own body metamorphosed into a huge dog. Peter had struggled, as if it had been painful, but his own transformation felt right, part of the natural order of things. His clothes had just slipped off, as did the tracker.

And the journey home, all the killing. Neal’s soul curdled at the memory of the animals he’d hunted, the small rabbits and squirrels, and the deer. Oh, god... the doe and her fawn. How easily he took those lives. But Peter needed his help, Peter wouldn’t be able to get home without him. His last clear memory was lying in that hollow, bargaining with himself over the doe. Neal remembered the sacrifice he’d made.

His recollection of what happened after that was vague, like he was looking at everything through an old mirror or a distorted window. The memories weren’t so much incidents as emotions. Fear, worry, anxiety, anger. And over everything was the all-consuming need to help Peter, the urge to ensure his utter safety, to protect him from the slightest harm.

It was like flipping through a photo album, memories spilling into consciousness, faster and faster. He remembered killing the deer, the bright taste of blood. He remembered bringing them back to Peter, making Peter drink the dead doe’s milk. He remembered traveling at night – a bridge, getting separated, the fear of losing his pack. And then finding a man – he fed them, although Neal also remembered not wanting to eat that meat. But Peter seemed to know him, and Neal didn’t understand how, but it was a small miracle. The drive back from wherever they were, back to Brooklyn, saved them days, and maybe their lives.

The wind in his face, that he remembered – the smells of the forest giving way to the unpleasant, burning odors of pavement and gas and humanity.

There was this one particular image that burned in his brain: the two of them, standing – sitting – side by side on a city street. There was another dog – Neal remembered the anger and the fear and the need to protect Peter. So he ran after the animal, he chased him into the park. He violated the one, inviolable rule of this entire, misbegotten adventure – he separated himself from Peter. He got lost.

The children were unforgettable. In his life, he’d never really spent much time with kids, but he’d always liked them, liked their innocence, their infinite curiosity, their wonder at the commonplace.

The three children who found him – Neal remembered thinking that these small creatures could be his new pack. By the simple virtue of their innocence, they were entitled to all the protection he could give them. Neal had to laugh at that – he wasn’t the one who carried the badge. He wasn’t the one sworn to protect the innocent, to uphold the law, to fight wrongdoing – that was Peter’s role.

In a startling flash of insight, Neal realized what the magic had done – it had reversed their roles. Peter had become the seeker, and Neal was the protector. How Peter would laugh when he told him.

 _Peter…_

There was silence. Neal reached out again. _Peter, where are you? Are you there?_

He tried not to panic. _Peter, come on. What’s happening? Why aren’t you answering me?_

Neal tried to stand up. He pushed his legs beneath him and exerted all his strength, but he couldn’t stand, he could barely move. The weakness terrified him more than the pain did.

 _Peter, what’s the matter? Why can’t you hear me?_

Then the most terrifying thought occurred to him. _They put down dogs who are very sick or who don’t have a home._

Neal whimpered, realizing that he was all alone – he had no pack, no friends, no one to look after him, look out for him. He would likely die here, and no one would ever know what had happened. He tried to tuck his head under his tail and wished he could cry. The powers that be might have given him his intelligence back, but they were laughing, mocking him. Once again, his sacrifice was in vain.


	16. WEDNESDAY MORNING

IT WAS WELL BEFORE VISITING HOURS WHEN MOZZIE FOUND HIS WAY INTO PETER'S ROOM. El had left him a message late the night before. She was going to go home for a little while to get some rest, a shower, and some fresh clothes, but she’d be back in the early morning. The guard on his door was dozing. A perfect opportunity to slip in and question the Suit.

He was sleeping and looked marginally better than he did when he got home, when he stopped being a dog. (Moz still got a surge of glee thinking about it. _He. Was. Right._ ) The Suit’s color was a little less gray and death’s door-ish, and he seemed to be doped up on something, but he still looked like – what was that expression? Ahhh: the dog’s breakfast? He snickered at his own cleverness.

The Suit must have heard him. He stirred and opened his eyes, which seemed to focus on nothing in particular. “Who’s there? Neal, is that you?” His speech was slurred – definitely drugged on something good.

Moz had some vague memories of the stuff they pushed into him a few years back. He scratched the scar on his chest in memory.

“It's me, Suit. You need to tell me what's happened to Neal.” Moz knew he had only a few minutes before Peter faded out, before El came back.

He started to ramble, “Neal. Lost Neal. Ran off, bad Neal, broke the rules again. Silly Neal, that dog was no threat to us. Neal, where are you? Come back to me. Please come back. Please.” The Suit's voice rose on a pitiful sob. “Come back to me, please. I need you.” Tears rolled down his cheeks, unchecked and unstoppable. Moz felt a wave of grief rise in him, too. A sob to match Peter's.

He bent over Peter, keeping his voice low, unthreatening, steady. “Where should I look? Where can I look for him?”

Peter turned his face to Moz, eyes wide open, his pupils blown from the drugs they had pumped into his system. But his voice was suddenly, frighteningly coherent. “Fort Greene Park. Heading north. The Walt Whitman Houses. I didn't look there. He's lost, he's scared. I can feel that _now_. I don’t know why, but I can feel him again.”

The Suit's voice started to slur again. He tossed his head and looked back at Moz. “You need Neal, too. Find him for us. Please, Moz. For all of us.”

Peter's eyes closed and he lost consciousness. Moz stood there, almost hating Peter. Hating him for losing Neal, for needing Neal, for having something with Neal that he'd never be able to share.

He heard El walk in, but didn’t turn to face her.

“I hope you haven’t upset Peter.” As close as they had gotten over this past week, Moz could never doubt that her husband would be her first priority. “He nearly tore his IV out to go try and find him. Don’t you dare blame him for what’s happened to Neal.”

“I’m not – he said that Neal ran off, something about chasing another dog. He thinks Neal may be in the Whitman Houses. I’m going to head over there now. He also thinks that Neal’s in danger.”

“The Whitman? Maybe you should take someone with you?”

“Thank you for your concern, Elizabeth, but I can handle myself.” Moz looked at her, and underneath the layers of worry and exhaustion, he saw her natural humor creep through.

“Be careful, and let me know what’s going on.”

Moz reached out, almost touching her, and then just smiled in agreement.

 

BEFORE HEADING OVER TO THE WHITMAN HOUSES, MOZ DOUBLED BACK TO FRIDAY and picked up a few things: a leash and collar (and why he had those when he’d never even owned a dog is a mystery best left unexamined), a very respectable identification and gold badge for ICE Agent Dante Havisham (if he’d had time, Moz would have preferred to recreate a Humane Law Enforcement badge – but Peter’s words made clear that time was something he didn’t have), and a bag of cooked bacon. While Neal-the-human didn’t care too much for the stuff, Moz knew that dogs considered it food of the gods. He might need something to tempt him out of hiding.

It was late morning by the time Moz got to the Walt Whitman Houses. There were kids playing, hanging out, running around, but the place felt like somewhere that time hadn’t touched with a benevolent hand. Underneath the shouts of the small humans, Moz thought he could hear a steady counterpoint of despair. He wasn’t surprised. This place was, after all, a manifestation of Big Brother at his worst – people can’t live when every aspect of their lives is controlled by rules enforced by the authoritarian classes. He would, if he could, tear this place and all the others like it down, brick by brick.

But that wasn’t going to find Neal. Moz had a map and a search grid laid out, but the size of the place meant it could take days. And if someone had found Neal and taken him inside, well, that was going to make it that much more difficult. Not impossible, just more difficult.

He started with the area closest to the park gates and began his grid search. The simplest and most effective thing to do was to call out for Neal. And for two men who lived so much of their lives in shadow, crying out his name seemed somehow quite wrong. But what are you going to do otherwise? Even if it did make him feel like an idiot.

“Neal? Neal? Come on boy – where are you? Neal? It’s me... come on. It’s time to go home.”

Much to his distress, this drew an audience of children.

“Whatcha doing, mister?”

“I’m, ummm, looking for my dog. Have any of you seen a big dog wandering around?”

All of the kids seemed to take a giant step back, and one of the older girls gave him the stink eye.

“I’m just looking for my dog. Do any of you want to help?” Moz hated to work in big teams, but these kids knew the neighborhood and could be helpful.

One of the kids ran off, and the rest had become strangely hostile.

“Well, if you don’t want to help, can you all just get out of my way?” The children stayed put. They crowded him, but at a distance, as if they were setting up a human cordon. He glared at them, and, not surprisingly, it didn’t work. These were tough little bastards.

“Mister – we know what it means when a stranger asks a kid to help him look for his dog.” This was from a particularly belligerent girl, who stood there with her arms across her chest.

Mozzie was puzzled. “Huh? I’m looking for my dog, not to steal your lunch money, kid. And if you don’t want to help, then GO AWAY.” He didn’t shout – just spoke a little, well, forcefully.

The kids scattered, and Moz chuckled to himself, satisfied that he could still put the fear of something into people generally shorter than he was. He turned around and found himself face-to-face with a large man in a uniform. A housing project cop. Moz smiled weakly. He neither wanted nor needed this type of help.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“You tell me. The kids say you’re looking for a lost dog.” The cop was skeptical.

Moz decided that he might be better off enlisting the help of the establishment, rather than form his own gang of Baker Street Irregulars.

“Yeah, my dog ran away and I thought it might have headed into the ... ummm ... development here.” Moz was hesitant to refer to the Walt Whitman Houses as “the Projects.” He was nothing if not culturally sensitive.

“Can I see some ID please?”

“For the dog?”

“No, for you.” The cop’s didn’t seem inclined to help him. Normally, he’d resist The Man – particularly The Man in a uniform, but he couldn’t afford delays with Neal’s life on the line. He handed the officer his Dante Havisham ICE badge.

“You really lost a dog?” The cop seemed less skeptical as he handed him the folder back. Moz was amused that the cop was trusting him more simply because he had a badge.

“Yes, I really did lose my dog. Why would I be walking around with his collar and leash and a bag full of bacon if I didn’t?”

“Ummm, you do know that pedophiles like to ask little kids to help them find their dogs, don’t you Agent Havisham?”

Moz turned beet red, then dead white. “No, I didn’t.”

The cop seemed to take pity on him. “What type of dog did you lose?”

“A big grey Irish wolfhound. Blue eyes.” At least Moz hoped Neal-the-dog had blue eyes.

“Shit – that was YOUR dog?”

“You mean, you found him?!” Moz was overjoyed. And then he realized that the cop had used the past tense. “What do you mean, _was_?”

“There was an incident two days ago. A couple of kids found your dog hiding out.”

“Neal wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone a small child.” Moz hoped not – he hoped that Neal-the-dog was as kid-friendly as Neal-the-human.

“No, actually he protected some children.”

“That’s Neal, but what happened to him?” Moz felt the panic rising.

“He was hurt – one of the teenagers who lives in the Houses got hold of an old-model Taser and ...”

“Tased my dog?”

“Yeah – twice. Once on the throat, the other time on the chest. Your dog’s in bad shape. He was taken to the emergency vet clinic, but the vet wasn’t too sure he was going to make it. I’m sorry – but you should know your dog was a hero. He stopped Big-J from attacking a little girl ...”

“Whose Big-J?”

“Big-J – Joseph Holliman, 16 years old. Not a banger – a damn sociopath, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Moz shook his head – he didn’t care about that now – there’d be time to handle the little bastard who hurt Neal later. “I’ve got to go – I’ve got to get to my dog.”

The cop nodded. “Good luck. Like I said, your dog’s a hero. He saved those kids.”

Moz didn’t hear him. He strode off, pulled out his cell phone and called his beautiful monster.

 

“YOU CAN’T PUT HIM DOWN. THIS DOG BELONGS TO SOMEONE, there’s someone out there looking for him.” Shoshana Ross stood in front of a very large dog crate holding a very weak, very sick Irish wolfhound. She was only five foot two and a part-time vet’s assistant, but she’d be damned if she’d let this dog be destroyed after he was injured saving a child’s life.

“Shoshana, the dog is dying. His heart’s been damaged. It’s only a matter of time – a few days at the most.” Her boss, John Salish, was the owner of the small veterinary clinic which had taken the wolfhound.

The day before yesterday, John had responded to the call by the HLE cops and attended the scene where the dog had been injured. She knew that he wasn’t unsympathetic to his assistant’s pleas for mercy. It damn near broke both of them to see this huge beast brought low by human viciousness. The Taser that had shocked the dog was an older model, without the safety features that would have prevented the gun from firing rapid multiple jolts of electricity. The second shock had severely compromised the dog’s cardiac function.

“He’s not in pain.” Shoshana knew that was a weak argument.

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know that he is.”

“He can barely walk.”

“But he _can_ walk. He just needs time to recover.”

“Look, Shoshie...”

“Don’t call me that.” _Shoshie_ had been his pet name for her, before they broke up.

“Sorry – Shoshana. The odds of this dog making a full recovery are slim, almost impossible. He’s big and needs a lot of care. And frankly, there are other animals in the clinic that need the resources I would have to devote to this one dog. We’re short-staffed, and I just don’t have the funds to support the full time care this dog needs. It breaks my heart, you know I hate to destroy any animal, but I have to be pragmatic.”

She shook her head. “I understand, but this dog has a home, I know it.”

“I think you’re wrong. He’s a stray, and it looks like he hasn’t had a home in a long time, if ever.”

“John, you can’t be serious. Irish wolfhounds just don’t wander around homeless. Even though this guy looks like he’s had a rough time of it, he had to have been fed and cared for to grow as big as he is now.”

“Shoshana, the titers I ran show that he hasn’t been vaccinated, ever. That doesn’t point to a quality puppyhood.”

“But that doesn’t mean that someone isn’t looking for him.” She tried not to cry. For some reason, the plight of this huge, gentle beast affected her strongly.

The vet sighed. “Look, we can’t keep him indefinitely. You know that. And if he doesn’t improve, it would be cruel to keep him suffering. You know that too.”

“What if I donated extra time to care for him? You’re right that he needs resources you don’t have – but if I stay and care for him out of my own time, how can you object?

“And what about the next injured stray that’s dropped off? Will you give up your life to protecting all of them?”

“John, that’s not the point. Right here, right now, this dog did something extraordinary – he saved a little girl’s life. He deserves every bit of compassion we can give him.”

Faced with Shoshana’s stubbornness, and his own natural compassion, he backed off. “Look, if you want to donate your time to care for him, I won’t stop you. But if his condition worsens or no one claims him soon, I’ll have no choice.”

Shonshana hugged her boss for the small reprieve and then immediately backed off. “Thank you.” Their prior relationship made physical contact awkward.

“When you have a few minutes, you may want to call the ASPCA and the local shelters, to see if anyone has called to report a missing wolfhound.”

She grinned. That was going to be her next step, regardless of John’s instructions.

She turned around and looked at the object of her concern. The big dog was awake and looking at her with huge, blue eyes. He wagged once, twice – perhaps in recognition of her championing. Shoshana knelt and opened the crate. “How are you feeling, boy?” She scratched his ears before checking his vital signs. John was right, this was a very sick animal and he might never fully recover. But something compelled her to give this dog every chance she could.

His biggest problem was his own breed. Many wolfhounds, because of their size and their relatively small genetic pool, suffered from major cardiac problems. This animal was no exception. The EKG showed severe arrhythmia, which would likely kill him in the next few weeks, if not the next few days. Maybe if he hadn’t been hit with the Taser, the latent defects wouldn’t have manifested.

The animal struggled to his feet, shaking and unsteady, panting. He didn’t try to leave the crate, but just turned around, trying to get more comfortable. Shoshana wanted to give him a dog bed, so he didn’t need to lie on the hard metal of the crate’s floor. But the dog (she wouldn’t name him, even in her head – if she did, her heart would break when he died) was still having some intestinal problems as a result of his injuries. It was really rather funny, in a sad sort of way, but every time he lost control of his bowels, he seems ashamed at himself, almost as if he were human.

Despite his dire condition, though, he _was_ getting stronger. He could get up, and he could do his doggy business with less difficulty. He was eating and drinking and looked brighter and more alert than she’d thought possible when John brought him in Monday morning.

 _You will get better, you have to get better. You hear me?_ The dog turned his head and stared at her, as if he _did_ hear her thoughts.

She enticed him out onto the floor so she could clean his crate, and was just finishing up when the fax machine started buzzing. That was strange; they weren’t expecting any lab results. She was trying to get the wolfhound back into the crate when the doorbell rang. It was after appointment hours, but not so late that they’d turn away an emergency.

“You, stay.” The dog looked insulted by the command, as if he’d go anywhere in his condition. She picked up the fax as she passed by. And came to a dead stop. The fax was from the Federal Bureau of Investigation: they were looking for an Irish wolfhound, gray coat, light-colored eyes. The dog was part of an investigation into the disappearance of a federal agent. The bell rang again, and someone was clearly anxious, because they were leaning on it and persistently rapping on the window.

There were two people at the front door, a small bald man and a tall African-American woman. The woman was holding up what looked like, of all things, an FBI badge. Shoshana unlocked and opened the door immediately. The agent introduced herself as Diana Berrigan, but the man didn’t introduce himself at all. He just started asking her questions.

“Do you have a wolfhound here? Big and gray, with blue eyes?”

“Yes, he was brought in ...”

The man didn’t let her finish, and started calling out, “Neal, Neal – where are you?”

The agent put a restraining hand on the man, who shrugged it off. “You have my dog. Please – tell me he’s alive.”

“Mozzie, please. Let the woman answer.”

“Yes, yes – a wolfhound was brought in the day before yesterday. He was badly hurt by a Taser, but is stable and awake now.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” The little man’s relief was intense. “Can I see him? Please?”

Shoshana took the two of them into the back. Neal was still on the floor, stretched out and sleeping. The areas where the Taser had burned him had been shaved and bandaged, but otherwise he was clean and well-groomed (or at least as well-groomed as an Irish wolfhound could be).

“Neal? Is that you, boy?”

Shoshana thought it was a little strange that this man, who was so clearly worried about his dog, didn’t recognize his pet on the spot. But the dog, _Neal_ , opened his eyes and seemed to recognize the man. He gave a short, sharp bark, started wagging his tail and worked his way into a sitting position.

“Neal?” The man – Moz, the agent called him – wrapped his arms around the animal and started to cry.

She turned to Agent Berrigan. “Can I ask, what is your role in this? Why is the FBI involved?” She handed the woman the fax. “We just got this.”

The woman glanced down at the paper. “The dog, Neal is, well, part of an investigation.”

“And this guy?” She gestured with her chin. It was subtler than pointing.

“It’s complicated. He doesn’t _precisely_ own Neal...they’re just really good friends.”

Shoshana thought that was an odd way to describe a relationship between man and dog, but she wasn’t going to question it – she was just relieved that Neal had a home and would be taken care of.

The agent got on her knees next to the dog, who was resting his head on the little guy’s shoulder.

“Neal, do you recognize me?” The dog looked at her, and seemed to know the woman: the slow beat of his tail sped up just a little. He rubbed his muzzle against her chin.

“I’m going to go get Dr. Salish, the vet. I’ll be right back.” Shoshana kept an ear open – something seemed odd about those two.


	17. WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

“COME ON, LET’S GET NEAL OUT OF HERE.” Moz pulled out the leash and collar, but Diana stopped him.

“Moz, no. We don’t know what’s wrong with Neal and he may need medication, a doctor’s care.” She understood Moz’s anxiety – they all could – but Neal was safe now. Or as safe as he could be, as a dog.

“Lady Suit – he has to become human again. What use is a vet when he’ll be a man again?” Moz whispered.

Moz had a point, but she still wanted to make sure that Neal had what he needed for as long as he remained a dog.

The little vet’s assistant came back with her boss. Diana stood up.

“Shoshana tells me that this is your dog – he’s called Neal?”

Diana shushed Moz as he was about to go into a diatribe about property and ownership and free will. This wasn’t the time or the place. She gave the vet the speech she had prepared when Moz told her he’d found Neal. “Well, the actually dog is a key piece of evidence in an investigation, but Moz, here – they’re close. The lead agent on the case would have come for Neal himself, but he’s in the hospital.”

Moz was nearly knocked on his feet when Neal tried to stand up – he seemed definitely agitated now, as if he understood that Peter was ill. But it was a struggle and the big dog only managed to get halfway out of a seated position before he slid back down to the floor with an exhausted whimper.

“What’s wrong with him?” Diana and Moz spoke simultaneously.

Salish gave them a pitying look. “Your dog – Neal – is very ill.” The vet shook his head. “He’s dying.”

Moz crashed to the floor next to Neal and Diana grabbed a chair and sat down.

“What – why?” She could barely find her voice.

Shoshana joined Moz on the cool tile floor, gently petting Neal, her strokes in time with Mozzie's. The vet took another chair, resting his hands between his knees. He looked up at Diana, eyes filled with compassion.

“Your dog was shocked twice by a Taser – once on the throat, near the carotid artery, and once right over his heart. After the second shock, his heart went into ventricular defibrilation. In other words, he had a heart attack.”

“But he’ll be all right, won’t he?”

The vet shook his head. “Cardiac arrest in canines is a difficult thing to treat in general. And given that Neal here is an Irish wolfhound, his situation now is extremely dire. Many of his breed suffer from congenital cardiomyopathy, and a very large percentage of these dogs die of heart disease before their seventh year. And with your dog’s case – the Taser shock did a tremendous amount of damage – he’s very, very weak now. I didn’t think he was going to make it through the night.”

Diana felt her own heart stutter – Neal was trapped in a body that was going to kill him.

“How long? How long does he have?”

“That’s going to be up to his owner. From a humane perspective, your dog shouldn’t be made to suffer because his owner can’t bear to let him go.”

“You’re saying that Neal should be put down?” Moz bit his lip at Diana’s words, clearly fighting against his own shouts of denial. Diana herself fought to keep calm.

“I’m saying that your dog here is in a very critical state. His heart is compromised and he doesn’t have a long time left. He’s going to need a lot of care – and right now, he’s so weak, he can’t stand.”

Diana got down out of her chair and joined Moz and the vet’s assistant on the floor. She looked into the dog’s – into Neal’s – blue eyes and thought she saw a spark of understanding – proof that the brain inside that long canine skull was Neal Caffrey, brilliant (former) conman, not simply a dog driven by instinct.

“It’s not my choice. What can we do for him now?”

Salish sighed. “He’s going to need a lot of specialized medical care. When animals are this sick, they usually _aren’t_ under care long term.”

The vet paused; this was a difficult subject for him.

“Please tell the person responsible for Neal that it’s really not fair to put an animal this sick through the testing and the rest of the treatment. And so many of the tests require sedation that could end up causing other, equally serious problems. The best you can do is give palliative care until you decide ...”

Diana’s hands shook as she stroked Neal’s head. To come so close to getting him back, only to lose him like this.

“If we take him home, can you write up what medicines, what treatment he’ll need?”

The vet nodded. “I know a specialist who may be able to handle cardiac issues as severe as Neal’s, but I’m not positive that he can treat your dog. He’s part of a clinic here in Brooklyn and you should get Neal in to see him as soon as possible. But I can’t guarantee that he’ll be able to help.”

“I understand.” Diana struggled not to cry.

As he was writing down a list of medications and treatment instructions, he asked Diana and Moz a question. “I’m curious – why hasn’t this dog ever been vaccinated?”

She looked at the little guy, who froze. Neither of them had an answer.

“I have to tell you, my assistant –” he nodded towards Shoshana “ – insisted that your dog wasn’t a stray. But frankly, I can’t say that I’m at all impressed with how he’s been treated. Not only is the failure to vaccinate a serious problem, but he’s malnourished as well.”

Diana opened her mouth to offer explanations, but nothing she could say would even come close to the truth. The doctor held out the discharge instructions, and she took them without a word.

He grimaced and then licked his lips nervously. “I ... I took the call to help your dog because I am committed to the welfare of all animals in this community, and as a volunteer, I don’t expect to be paid, but...” He wiped a hand across the back of his neck, clearly ill at ease with asking for money.

“Oh. OH.” Diana reached for her wallet, but Moz beat her to the punch, standing up and pulling out a thick stack of bills from his pocket. He peeled off a few twenties from the top, shoved them back in his pocket and handed the rest to the vet. Diana didn’t figure that Moz was walking around with a wad of singles.

The vet looked as if he were about to refuse Moz’s generosity.

“No, keep it all. You saved Neal life. That’s worth far more than money.”

Salish took the cash. “You’ll need some help with Neal.” He looked down at the big dog, and shook his head. “Maybe he should stay here until you can get him transferred.”

Diana thought it was a good idea, but she knew if she left Neal here, Moz would raise the roof, and if Peter found out that she didn’t bring Neal home, her life wouldn’t be worth living.

“No, we’ll take him.” She looked at the little guy. “We’ll take him to Peter and Elizabeth’s?”

Moz started to agree – then shook his head no. “Not with the Suit in the hospital – someone is going to need to take care of Neal. I’ve got just the place. And it isn’t far.”

Diana was mildly shocked. Peter had told her how Moz lived – in a series of safe houses and bolt holes. That he was willing to let her bring Neal to one was very, very surprising.

The vet’s assistant was trying to get Neal up on all fours, and after a few minutes of breathless struggle, Neal was on his feet. He took one step, another cautious step and a third. Diana wanted to cheer. He made it from the treatment area all the way to the waiting room before collapsing in a heavy, panting heap.

She left them to get the car – the Ford Explorer she’d grabbed from the motor pool right after getting the call from Moz. It was the last available car, and wasn’t something she would usually have accepted – too difficult to park on city streets – but right now, she was extremely grateful for the big gas guzzler, with its large cargo area.

By the time she drove up to the front of the vet’s clinic, they were waiting outside. Neal was sitting up and panting, and she watched as the vet, his assistant and Moz carefully lifted the dog into the back. Moz followed, sitting next to Neal, talking to his friend in a low, soft voice.

As she pulled away, Moz gave her an address near the Brooklyn Bridge. He didn’t say anything else – no quips, no quotes, no snide remarks. She drove carefully. Once they got Neal settled, she’d head back to the hospital. This news she couldn’t deliver to Peter over the phone.

 

THE MOOD IN THE OFFICE WAS STILL SUBDUED, BUT FAR LIGHTER THAN IT HAD BEEN SINCE PETER AND NEAL HAD DISAPPEARED. One half of the pair had been found – returned – safely, but they were all concerned what the separation meant. Was Neal still alive?

Hughes had quietly spread the word that Peter had been dropped off – dumped – in front of his home, and that Neal had been alive when Peter had last seen him. At least the last of that was true – Peter was adamant that Neal was alive, albeit a dog. The problems this created were endless. How the hell was he going to explain this to the higher ups? _My lead case agent and his CI were magically transformed into wolfhounds. The agent’s human again, but his CI’s wandering around Brooklyn, pissing on fire hydrants and car tires and quite possibly humping every bitch in smelling distance._

He had told Bancroft the truth – there was something about his boss, something that made it impossible to even slightly mask the truth. And, quite surprisingly, James didn’t say anything derogatory or tell Reese take a few days, see a doctor, maybe spend some time in a private clinic. Bancroft simply suggested that they find an alternative explanation for Burke and Caffrey’s disappearance.

Watching the White Collar team at work in the bullpen – focusing on the criminal investigations within their working mandate rather than scrambling to solve the disappearance of their teammates – Hughes let himself breathe a small sigh of relief. Caffrey was out there, and he knew they’d find him soon. A hundred and fifty pound dog – one that’s nearly four feet tall – doesn’t wander around Brooklyn unnoticed. Someone was going to report it soon. He had Jones working the phones; now that they knew where Neal was, roughly, there were a finite number of vets and agencies to reach out to.

He wondered where Berrigan was – he hadn’t seen her in a few hours. He was going to have her take over from Jones. He needed a lawyer’s help – and as competent as Berrigan was, she wasn’t an attorney and she didn’t have the seasoning that Clinton Jones had. Hughes made a mental note to talk with Peter about promoting the young man; it was past time that he was allowed to be more than just a supporting cast member or, god forbid, a “special guest star” in the department operations. He called Jones into his office.

“Where’s Diana?”

“She went to follow up on a lead.”

“A lead?” He liked that Peter didn’t micromanage his team, but considering the seriousness of the operation, she should have let him know.

Jones must have read something on his face, because he came to his colleague’s immediate defense. “She got a call from Neal’s friend – the little guy. He gets easily spooked.”

“I’ve met him – I know just how ‘easily spooked’ he really is. Don’t be fooled by the paranoia. Mr. Havisham – as he chooses to call himself – is a very smart, very resourceful man.”

Jones nodded, taking the comment to heart.

“We are going to have some trouble with the Marshals again. You know that.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve gotten a call from Judge Holloway’s clerk that the Marshals Service attorneys are trying to get a hearing to quash our motion. She’s putting them off, but they are going to get a slot on His Honor’s calendar by next week, or they are going to go over his head.”

“Where the hell can Caffrey be?”

“Well, as long as Neal’s a dog , the Marshals will never find him.”

Hughes smiled at the thought, but that wasn’t going to solve all of their problems, and he was going to need Clinton’s help to put his plan in motion.

But before he could say another word, his cell phone chimed with an incoming message. Jones’ did too.

It was Berrigan.

 _Found the dog, but there are problems. He’s with the little guy now. See you at the hospital?_

Hughes didn’t want to speculate about the problems, and as he put his jacket on, Jones replied to Berrigan’s text. They’d meet her at Peter’s room in the hospital. At least they didn’t have to worry now about the Marshals finding Neal.

On the ride down to the parking garage, Jones interrupted his train of thought. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“You had called me into your office for something? What can I do for you?”

Hughes knew why he liked this agent – thorough, conscientious, respectful. Yes, it was more than time for him to be promoted. “I am going to need your help in presenting a credible explanation for Burke and Caffrey’s disappearance.”

“Certainly, sir. Whatever I can do.”

“Ryan Wilkes.”

“Wilkes?”

“He’s in Lewisberg, right?”

“A life sentence for the double kidnapping.”

“I don’t think he’d much like the idea of being transferred to Marion and put into permanent lockdown.”

Jones smiled, absolutely understanding what Hughes was suggesting. “Eric Whitman did say he had heard that Wilkes wanted to kill Caffrey. We do have that in a sworn statement.”

“Yes, that we do.”

“Wilkes isn’t stupid – and he also has a strong sense of self-preservation.”

“We’ll just have to present him with all of the options. A word to the Department of Prisons about the threats to Peter and Neal, and Mr. Wilkes is be transferred to Marion within a week. That I will guarantee.”

“I’ll have his statement drafted tonight, sir.”

“Good - everything being equal, we’ll head down to Lewisberg tomorrow morning for a little friendly conversation with Ryan Wilkes.”

 

ELIZABETH WALKED TO THE WINDOW IN PETER’S HOSPITAL ROOM AND LOOKED OUT, BLINDLY GAZING ON THE FIELDS AND TREES OF FORT GREENE PARK. She desperately wondered where Neal was and what he was going through – alone, lost. Peter hadn’t told her much – it was so difficult for him to talk about it, but what he did say frightened her. Her imagination could fill in some of the trauma of their experiences, but she knew that there was much more than what Peter relayed, and she wondered if she’d ever know the full story.

Elizabeth looked away from the park and prayed that they Moz, the FBI – someone, anyone – found Neal soon. She didn’t know what was going to happen to Peter otherwise. He couldn’t rest, even drugged to the gills. When he did sleep, he was tormented by nightmares, crying out for Neal, and his anguish broke her heart.

She paced around the confines of the small hospital room, always coming back to Peter. His physical condition had improved enough that he was out of ICU, but his doctor was adamant that Peter’s condition was still critical, on the knife edge of disaster.

Dr. Stein had made it clear that what Peter needed most was to rest, to let his body heal; his constant anxiety over his partner was very detrimental to his recovery. She told him he needed to relax and let his colleagues do what they were trained for. Elizabeth wanted to smack the doctor – she had no clue what Neal meant to her husband.

But what exactly were they to each other? Neal was more than a partner, more than a friend. What came after that? Now, at this late hour, Elizabeth knew she shouldn’t have to wonder about that. They were lovers in all but name and deed – and they didn’t even realize it. And the tragedy was that they might never realize it. Her own heart clenched in grief at the sheer, utter waste.

Peter moaned, once again caught up in the throes of a nightmare, crying out for Neal. El went to his side and took his hand. He calmed a bit, but she could feel the anxiety radiating out of him.

Elizabeth supposed that she should be angry that her husband loved someone else. Conventional morality would give her every right to be bitter, hurt. But she wasn’t, and not because of recent events. Somehow, she had always known. From the first, it seemed, she had recognized Peter’s fascination with Neal – his worry, his concern, the way Neal had become a locus of his existence. And yet, that had taken nothing away from his relationship with her. She had no doubt that he loved her as much as he did when they were first married, if not more. He just loved Neal too.

She brushed her fingers through Peter’s hair and he turned his face into her palm, comforted by her touch.

She also didn’t doubt that the bonds between Peter and Neal were going to be even stronger now, that the trials they must have endured would only bring them closer. This was something else she supposed she should resent. Peter was _her_ husband. But she couldn’t – she never could.

She stood next to her husband’s hospital bed and considered the problem – or rather the fact that there was no problem. It boiled down to a very simple fact: she loved her husband and she wanted him happy. And…

There was a corollary there. And what?

She loved Neal too.

Elizabeth gripped the rails of Peter’s hospital bed hard enough to bruise her palms. _When the hell did that happen?_

She wanted to sob, to scream, to cry out at the unfairness of it. And yet, as quickly as the turmoil of this sudden realization overtook her, it was soothed by a rising tide of peace. She couldn’t envision Peter taking Neal as a lover without her, and she could never see herself with just Neal, but she could see _them_ , the three of them, together.

Everything that had been confusing her became obvious now.

Peter made Neal a better man, that was so very clear. From the beginning, Peter had carefully harnessed the passions that ruled Neal. He didn’t break him; he offered choices and they both learned to live with the consequences. And as Peter improved Neal, so Neal made Peter a better man, too. At the start – when Peter was considering Neal’s offer – she could see how rule-bound he was becoming, how a world filled with shades of gray was becoming more and more black and white, right and wrong – no middle ground. She wouldn’t have loved Peter any less if Neal had never exploded into their lives, but the man he became because of Neal was so much _more_ than the man that was.

When Neal came back, and Peter was healthy, they were going to have a lot to talk about. She smiled at the thought of bringing the two of them – no, the _three_ of them – together. Peter and Neal would never see what was as plain as day – they were men, after all – and she didn’t have the patience for pussyfooting around. Not after how close she had come to losing Peter. No, sometime in the very near future, they were going to have a long and frank talk. And maybe, just maybe, they’d all get to live happily ever after.

As she stroked her husband’s hand, careful not to disturb the IV lines inserted into the back it, she refused to consider that Neal might not come back to them. That was never a possibility.

 


	18. WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

WHILE PETER SLEPT, NIGHTMARES STALKED HIM. Scenes of all the times he had saved Neal replayed in his mind, and each time, at the end, where he rushes to the rescue – each time, he was too late. And Neal paid the price.

 _He’s back in the airport hanger, rushing to catch Neal before he gets on the plane and disappears with Kate, disappears forever._

>  _Neal’s upset that he’s come after him. “What, you here to arrest me?”_
> 
>  _As the scene unrolls, he hears himself trying not to beg, keeping his tone light, as if he were afraid of spooking Neal. He doesn’t have a badge, he doesn’t have a gun. All he has is his will, his humanity, his belief that Neal was meant for something better than this. He laughs lightly, bitterly._
> 
>  _“I'm still a civilian. And I know about Mentor. And I know you can walk away and it's all legal.”_
> 
>  _“Then what are you doing here?”_
> 
>  _Neal tone is bitter, and Peter doesn’t understand. Hurt wars with anger._
> 
>  _“I'm here as your friend.” It’s the truth – the raw and unvarnished truth – but only part of the whole truth. Doesn’t Neal know that there is nothing he wouldn’t do for him?_
> 
>  _“You understand I'm getting on that plane.”_
> 
>  _Peter tries to tell him something...but it doesn’t come out as he intends. “I also know you're making the biggest mistake of your life.”_
> 
>  _“This is what's best for everyone, Peter. You go back to your life; I get to have one of my own.”_
> 
>  _Neal clearly doesn’t want to listen to him. He’s like a headstrong child, an unbroken horse. He doesn’t realize that he belongs here, with Peter – not out in the dangerous world, unprotected, where he could be injured or killed. Where the wrong thought, the wrong move could ruin him forever._

 

Peter tossed in the hospital bed. He tried to open his eyes, but he didn’t have the strength to drag himself out of this drugged cocoon. He pulled and twisted. But he couldn’t move, something was holding him back, keeping him from Neal.

>  _The snow swirls around them, and he’s cold. It’s getting dark and a storm is brewing. Maybe if he delays Neal long enough, the plane will be grounded and he’ll have more time to convince Neal to stay. Even to make room for Kate. He’ll keep them safe – he’ll keep Neal safe this time. No more running. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep his friend from making the biggest mistake of both their lives._
> 
>  _And so he pleads and hates himself for being reduced to this. “You already have a life – a good one. Right here, with me. You have people who care about you – no one cares for you more than I do. You make a difference. You do – you make my life better.”_
> 
>  _He feels himself on the edge of tears, and he almost stops breathing when Neal reaches in his coat and hands Peter his FBI ID. And as much as he wants to hold Neal close, he’s frozen, he can’t move except to take the slim leather folder._
> 
>  _“Thank you for this.” At least Neal’s gratitude is genuine._
> 
>  _Peter looks at the folder, with the picture, the mug shot of Neal, bloated and unkempt. So unlike the man in front of him._
> 
>  _The snow is swirling around and the jet’s engines are firing up. Peter looks from the ID to the plane. Kate’s sitting in the seat next to the door, her face pale and worried. Peter can see that from twenty feet away. She shouldn’t be worried – Neal’s going to go away with her, leave him behind._
> 
>  _Neal doesn’t even say goodbye, just “I got to go.” Peter’s still frozen as Neal starts walking towards the plane. Why can’t he move?_

 

Peter yanked harder on the restraints, his legs scrambling against the sheets, trying to run, but he was bound tightly, for his own safety. He dimly recognized El’s voice, calling out to him, telling him to calm down. There were strange mechanical noises – not the rush of jet engines, but pings and tinny alarms. Then there was another voice and another. Someone touched his face – that wasn’t Elizabeth’s hand, and not Neal’s either. There was a sharp prick against his arm and he sank back into sleep, but the dream didn’t change and his fear only intensified.

>  _Neal’s walking away from him, towards Kate, towards disaster. Peter still can’t move, although all he wants to do is tackle Neal to the ground, to keep him here, with him. It’s not supposed to end like this._
> 
>  _He calls after Neal. “You said goodbye to everyone but me. Why?”_
> 
>  _Neal turns back. “I don't know, Peter.”_
> 
>  _His answer is a lie and they both know it._
> 
>  _Peter presses him “Why?”_
> 
>  _Neal gives him a typical Neal answer. “You know why.”_
> 
>  _He’s not going to let Neal get away with that. “Tell me.”_
> 
>  _Neal looks at him, and Peter’s stunned by the tears in his eyes. “Because you’re the only one who could change my mind.”_
> 
>  _Peter hears himself whisper, “Did I?”_
> 
>  _To his shock and horror, Neal doesn’t come back. He turns from Peter and walks quickly to the plane, never stopping, never looking back. As he puts his foot on the steps, as he reaches out for Kate, the plane explodes._
> 
>  _Peter hears himself screaming, “No. No! NO!”_
> 
>  _Neal’s gone in an instant, engulfed in flame, and Peter is still frozen. But his senses are overloaded – the stench of the jet fuel, plastic and metal, and over that the stench of burning human flesh. He can feel his own skin on fire where bits of shrapnel and melted plastic and bone fall on him._
> 
>  _He can finally move, and all he does is fall to the ground, weeping in his grief. Neal is gone, and it’s his own fault. He was too late, too late. Always too late._

 

And the agony continues. Peter’s too drugged to wake, to fight against his nightmares.

>  _He is in the conference room, Jones and Diana are with him. They’re dissecting the video feed from the elevators, chuckling a bit over Mozzie’s overly theatrical disguise. Blake, their newest probie, comes in and hands Clinton a folder. He shows it to him and Peter’s heart stops._
> 
>  _He shouts for Jones to pull Neal’s tracking data. He’s not far – the data from the overlay map puts him in a private cigar club._
> 
>  _How the hell has Neal gotten himself mixed up with a gunrunner, a racketeer with connections to the Columbian drug trade? A man who’s as comfortable with a machete as he is with a steak knife?_
> 
>  _He drives like a maniac, all the while praying that Neal’s unparalleled ability to talk his way out of anything and his advanced sense of self-preservation are keeping him safe. Peter forces himself to keep calm. Everything in his training tells him that going in with guns blazing would be the worst possible way to handle the situation._
> 
>  _And all his caution, all his well-reasoned, by-the-book approach is for nothing. As he and Diana step across the threshold, he’s jolted by the sound of a gunshot and the thud of a body hitting the carpet._
> 
>  _Two steps take them inside the club, and he’s greeted by the sight of Christopher Navarro and his thugs standing over Neal. There’s a small bullet hole over his heart and a spreading bloodstain. Peter falls to his knees and tries to stop the bleeding._
> 
>  _Neal turns to him and tries to tell him something, but there’s blood in his throat. There’s blood everywhere, and he can’t hear Neal, he can’t save Neal and he’s too late, he’s always too late._

Peter fought against the restraints, reaching for Neal, trying to save him in these nightmares. He relived Neal’s kidnapping at the hands of Ryan Wilkes – and instead of saving Lindsey Gless, she and Neal were murdered, their bodies dumped into the Hudson River, only to be found four long agonizing months later.

Every case he’s worked with Neal, every time that Neal had been in jeopardy haunted him now. He saw Neal dead in the Dutchman’s warehouse, he watched as Maria Fiametti blew his brains out, as Neal jumped and missed the awning and lay like a broken doll on the sidewalk, as he was raped or shanked in prison, or beaten to an unrecognizable pulp outside a Soho nightclub.

Peter was sedated and he couldn’t wake up, but the nightmares chased him from his rest. There was no escaping the images of Neal dead, destroyed because he was too late, too frightened, too cautious, too rule-bound to save him.

In the moments between the darkness and the dawn, his psyche delivered the worst blows of all.

>  _It’s high summer and Peter’s sweating, but not just from the heat. He knows Neal’s desperate. He’s not going to stay put, despite the anklet and the lockdown of his radius to his apartment. He’s watching for Fowler, but Neal’s out there, somewhere, waiting to pounce._
> 
>  _He chases Garrett through the museum, but the man is two steps ahead of him and when he's stalled by the guard, it gives Fowler just enough time to jam the door. And he’s too late again._
> 
>  _Mozzie calls to tell him that Neal’s got a gun._
> 
>  _The guard doesn’t have a key and Peter takes matters into his own hands, using a fire extinguisher to break the latch, and as he pushes his way into the room, there’s a crash and a shot and he can’t get in, he can’t stop Neal from making the biggest mistake of his life._
> 
>  _He can hear Neal shouting at Fowler. “I have five shots left – that's the only warning you will get.”_
> 
>  _Fowler voice is indistinct, Peter can’t hear his answer, but it seems to enrage Neal._
> 
>  _“TELL ME WHY YOU KILLED KATE!”_
> 
>  _Peter keeps pushing at the door, but he can’t get in. It opens just wide enough that he gets a terrifying view of the confrontation._
> 
>  _“You bought the explosives! You blew up the plane to get rid of us!”_
> 
>  _He keeps pushing and pushing, shouting at Neal to put the gun down, but Neal ignores him, and Peter realizes that he can’t even hear his own voice._
> 
>  _The dialogue between Neal and Fowler becomes more desperate – Neal’s shouting at Fowler, who is standing there like a target, like a man waiting for his executioner to pull the switch._
> 
>  _“You think I wanted to spend the last year of my life chasing you and a stupid box? It cost me everything! My career is over. My wife is gone.”_
> 
>  _Peter finally breaks into the room, Neal doesn’t take his eyes off of Fowler as he warns him off._
> 
>  _“Stay out of this, Peter.”_
> 
>  _As if he could._

 

The landscape of the nightmare shifted, and he wasn’t a player in it anymore. He watched the events unfurl, a helpless bystander. And yet he was still in that room, trying to talk Neal down, despite knowing that he was too late, that his words would be ineffective against the inevitable disaster.

>  _He tries to reason with Neal. “Put the gun down. Neal, don't do this...”_
> 
>  _Neal finally answers Peter directly. “You know he killed Kate.” He lowers the gun halfway, only to raise it again when Fowler answers._
> 
>  _“I didn't kill her.”_
> 
>  _Neal’s voice is as unsteady as his arm. “Who did?”_
> 
>  _“I –”_
> 
>  _Neal doesn’t let Fowler get more than a single word out. His focus is completely on Fowler now. “What do you know? Tell me what you know!”_
> 
>  _And then to Peter’s horror, Fowler taunts Neal. “You want to kill me? Go ahead and pull the trigger.”_
> 
>  _Peter is once again reduced to begging. “Neal, please, **do not** do this.”_
> 
>  _It’s as if he never said a word. “I know he killed her. He killed Kate.”_
> 
>  _He tries to reason with Neal, but he knows it’s pointless. Neal’s going to shoot Fowler. “If you pull that trigger, you will regret it for the rest of your life, Neal. You're not a killer.”_
> 
>  _“I want him to know how it felt. How she felt.”_
> 
>  _He’s close enough to see Neal’s finger on the trigger, squeezing. “Look at me. Look at me, Neal. Neal. Look at me, Neal. Come on.”_
> 
>  _Neal doesn’t look at him and he doesn’t listen to him and he pulls the trigger. This time, Garret Fowler isn’t wearing a bullet-proof vest – and it’s not as if one would have helped him anyway, since Neal’s shot is perfectly placed between his target’s eyes._
> 
>  _Fowler falls to the floor, his brains splattered on the wall behind him._
> 
>  _Peter is frozen; he watches helplessly as Neal turns to him._
> 
>  _“Why didn’t you stop me, Peter? Why did you let me shoot him?”_
> 
>  _“I tried...I tried. You wouldn’t listen to me.”_
> 
>  _“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”_
> 
>  _“Neal, listen, I’ll get you a lawyer – we’ll argue extreme emotional distress. We’ll beat this.” Peter tries to move, but he’s immobile, pinned by the weight of his grief._
> 
>  _Neal shakes his head. “No, Peter. It’s too late. It’s always too late. You’re always too late.”_
> 
>  _Peter can finally move, but just as Neal said, he’s always too late. He reaches for Neal as he turns and puts the gun under his jaw. Neal pulls the trigger and he is spattered with bone and blood and brain._

 

Peter screams and opens his eyes. He’s finally awake.

 

DIANA BARELY BEAT HUGHES AND JONES TO THE HOSPITAL; THEY MET UP AS SHE WAS WAITING FOR THE ELEVATOR. Hughes gave her a one-word command.

“Report.”

In a hushed voice she told him all she knew – which wasn’t much more than that Neal was still a dog, that he had been badly injured defending a group of small children and that his condition was precarious. Diana swallowed against her tears, trying to maintain her professional distance while reporting Neal’s status and what the vet had relayed to her.

“Where is Caffrey – Neal – now?” Hughes wasn’t unaffected either.

“He’s with Havisham – a safe house nearby.”

“Do you trust him not to disappear with Neal?”

“Yes, sir. Neal’s too ill and Havisham won’t risk moving him now.”

Hughes scrubbed at his face; the weariness that had been dogging all of them for so many days was taking its toll. “You want to tell Peter, or do you want me to?”

Diana was surprised at the choice she was given, but she didn’t let it show. “Sir, I was there, I’ve seen Neal – I think it would be best for me to give Peter the news. And it’s not all bad; we’ve found him, and isn’t that the most important thing of all?”

Hughes nodded, and Jones caught her eye. They were going to have to talk about this. She had her theories, and she knew that Clinton had his, too.

There was still an agent posted outside of Peter’s room. It was a formality only, but they couldn’t pull the guard without reason – and no one except the three of them, the little guy and the Burkes knew that Peter’s life wasn’t in danger, at least not from external forces.

Elizabeth Burke was standing outside her husband’s room, talking with a gray-haired woman in a white jacket. Diana assumed this was Peter’s doctor. From Elizabeth’s body language, she was angry and agitated, and the doctor was trying to calm her down.

Diana pasted a smile on her face – because, as she’d told Hughes, they had recovered Neal, and that was good news.

Mrs. Burke spotted them and pushed the doctor out of the way in her rush to meet them. “You found Neal?”

Diana nodded, not trusting her voice, and was shocked when Peter’s wife all but collapsed. “Oh, thank god.”

Hughes and Clinton helped her get Mrs. Burke into a chair. Her mask must have slipped, because the delighted relief that was in her eyes faded. “What’s the matter? Neal – is he …”

Diana sat down next to Elizabeth and took her hand. “He’s still a dog.” Peter’s wife nodded, she seemed to expect that. When Diana didn’t immediately continue, Elizabeth squeezed her hand, almost crushing her fingers.

“What’s the matter?”

Diana swallowed and looked up at Hughes. He was no help, and neither was Clinton. This was going to be all on her.

“Neal was hurt. Badly.”

 

NEAL COULDN’T BELIEVE HOW WEAK HE WAS, HOW MUCH HIS BODY HURT. But what was even more unbelievable was what the doctor told Diana and Mozzie –he was dying, his heart would give out. That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t have heart disease – he took care of himself, he exercised, he ate well. Even the red wine he drank was supposed to be good for his heart.

But he wasn’t human – and it seemed that the powers that consigned him to this canine form were going to have the last laugh. The vet thought he should be put to sleep – it would be the _humane_ thing to do.

And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all. He could barely stand, he had a difficult time controlling his bowels, and he was in a lot of pain. Maybe if humans treated each other with the care they gave their pets, the world would have a lot less suffering.

But he wasn’t ready quite yet – he needed to see Peter one last time. And Elizabeth. He needed to know that they were all right.

Mozzie came back, and Neal tried to smile, but just ended up panting. It was certainly a red letter day – his friend let a Suit into one of his precious safe houses. Even he didn’t know about this one, and it was so close to Peter and Elizabeth’s. He hoped Moz wouldn’t abandon it afterwards.

“Neal, I’ve been doing some research …” Moz paused and looked at him; the expression on his face dropped in dismay and he sighed. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 _Sorry, Mozzie. So sorry._ But of course his friend didn’t hear his apology.

Neal shivered as Moz wiped him down, and then sneezed at the strong smell of the ammonia that he used to disinfect the floor.

“You okay?”

Neal barked – the only answer he could give that Moz would understand.

“Would you like some water?” Mozzie didn’t wait for an answer; he filled a shallow bowl and set it down, then helped Neal onto his belly, so he could drink. Neal lapped up all of the water, but he was exhausted by the time he finished, and he knew he was going to need to pee in a little while. And make a mess again.

But Moz, his ever ingenious friend, fixed that, wrapping something around his belly – a diaper – so that he wouldn’t go all over everything again. Neal sighed – this was not a life he wanted to live for much longer.

Moz sat down on the floor next to him, and Neal rested his chin on his friend’s knee.

“Like I said before…” Moz waved a hand in the general direction of his hindquarters. “I’ve been doing some research on your predicament. And I was there when the Suit became bipedal again. I hate to say it, kid…but I think you’re screwed.”

Neal sighed again. _Yeah, Moz…I have to agree._

Moz, of course, couldn’t hear him. He rambled on a bit. “This whole thing has been a pastiche of myth and fairytale, you know. A bit of Greek mythology – and that deer – could they be any more obvious?”

 _What about the deer? And who are **they**?_

Maybe Moz did hear him. “A Persian Fallow Deer – I mean, why not just put up a billboard and announce that they’re staging a version of the Actaeon myth.”

 _But it’s not the Actaeon myth, Moz. Actaeon was turned into a deer, not a dog._

“Okay, okay. I get your point. But don’t you see…this whole thing has been a weird exercise – an adventure designed by a committee.”

 _Moz, can you hear me?_

His friend tilted his head, looking for all the world like a curious, bespectacled robin. “Of course I can’t hear you Neal. You’re a dog. And you’re not telepathic.”

 _Moz – you CAN hear me. You can._ Neal tried to get up and lick Moz in his joy. But he gently pushed Neal away.

“Down boy. As much as I like you, I really don’t want your slobber on my glasses.”

Damn it, Moz wasn’t listening. Well, he was – but he wasn’t really paying attention.

“Anyway, I can’t seem to find anything in the Western Canon that’s going to make you human again. I don’t know why the Suit got so lucky, though.”

 _Maybe you need to discard your white privilege and look beyond what Harold Bloom and Joseph Campbell tell you to read._

“Hmmm, maybe I _should_ look beyond Harold Bloom and Joseph Campbell – although Campbell did write a book on Eastern mythology.”

 _Yeah, and he called it “Oriental” mythology, Moz. That should tell you something about his perspective._ Neal was getting tired of arguing with a man who refused to hear him.

“When I think about the Suits, I get curious. Was it Mrs. Suit’s kiss? If she kisses you, will you become a man again? That seems too simplistic, even for the Western Canon.”

Moz looked down at Neal. “I wonder…” He got on his hands and knees, so he was eye level with Neal, and took off his glasses.

Neal had an idea of what was coming, and although he hoped this would work, he had no expectations.

Mozzie’s lips were warm and smooth against his nose, smelling a little bit like the lip balm he preferred. There was a tingle (but that could have been from the menthol in the lip balm) and nothing else.

“Ahh, it was worth a shot.” His friend sighed. “Regrets are illuminations come too late.”

Neal crawled a little closer, put a heavy paw on Mozzie’s knee and butted his head against Mozzie’s chin. _I love you, my friend. And I have no regrets._


	19. LATE WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

PETER WAS SURPRISED TO FIND THAT HE WAS ALONE IN HIS HOSPITAL ROOM. Every time he had woken, El had been at his side, and he wondered where she was. He shook his head and craned his neck to ease some of the tightness. The nightmares he’d been having were still terrifyingly vivid, but they were only nightmares. He cursed – his hands were still in the restraints, but he was able to reach the buzzer. With any luck, he’d be able to convince the nurses to remove them.

He took a deep breath and tried to focus, knowing that he had to appear sane and in control, regardless of his worry about Neal. Peter paused – his mad internal rush to rescue Neal seemed to have quieted. It didn’t feel like the anti-anxiety drugs they had been pumping into him. What had happened? He rang for the nurse and waited.

Not only did a nurse respond, but El came back, trailed by Diana. Both women had smiles on their faces, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t see there were problems.

“You’ve found Neal.”

Diana nodded.

Peter closed his eyes in a brief prayer of thanks.

Very conscious of the nurse in the room, he said nothing more. Diana, as in sync with him as always, left the room. Jones and Hughes were just outside the door. El stayed.

The nurse, this time an older Asian woman with a kind smile, took his blood pressure and his temperature, made the usual _hmm_ and looked him in the eye. “Agent Burke – are you going to cause any problems for me, or can I remove the restraints?”

Peter promised to be good, earning him a smile from the nurse and a sniff from his wife. Once he was unbuckled, he stretched and flexed his arms, reaching out to take hold of El’s hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

The nurse smiled again, fussed a little with the IVs and left. Diana came back in, with Hughes and Clinton. This was the first time he’d seen them with his head clear – without the all consuming need to get out of the hospital to try to find Neal.

“Where is he?”

“Mozzie has him.”

“He’s still a dog?” He couldn’t believe how ridiculous that sounded, and how unflinchingly his team and his boss accepted that.

“Yes.” There was something in Diana’s voice, in her eyes. It was echoed in Jones’ posture and the way El was gripping his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

Diana cleared her throat. “Neal was injured.”

Peter fought to keep himself calm. “How badly?”

For the third time in the space of an hour, Diana relayed the tale.

As her voice trailed off, Peter took a deep breath and turned to Elizabeth. “You need to get me out of here now.”

Much to his surprise, she didn’t argue with him. “I’ve already told your doctor that you need to be discharged as soon as possible. You aren’t resting here, they’ve run all the tests they need to run, and the longer you stay, the worse you’re getting.”

Peter was rather taken aback by El’s fierceness.

“And what did she say to that?”

“She asked me where I got my medical degree.”

 

THE TRIP FROM THE HOSPITAL TO MOZZIE'S BROOKLYN BOLT HOLE SEEMED TO TAKE FOREVER. Peter was fidgety and nervous; more than once El put her hand on his knee to stop him from bouncing and he actually bit his tongue to stop from asking Diana how much longer.

She pulled up to the curb in front of a surprisingly ordinary three-story brownstone in Williamsburg, a fully attached structure not so different from Peter’s own home.

“You’re kidding me, right? Mozzie lives the middle-class dream?”

Diana chuckled. “It’s all a dodge – you have to see the interior.”

Frankly, Peter didn’t care if Moz had avocado green shag carpeting and harvest gold kitchen appliances. He wanted Neal – he wanted to see Neal.

Hughes and Clinton pulled up behind them and Jones went to help Peter out of the SUV. It galled him, but he needed the assistance to get down and out of the vehicle without falling.

“You know, Moz is going to freak when the three of you invade this place.”

Hughes gave him a tight smile, one filled with a little too much satisfaction. “Mr. Havisham has the thanks of a very grateful FBI, and I will be delighted to present him with a certificate of acknowledgment. I think that will be enough to disturb him for the rest of the decade.”

Diana led the way, not up to the front door, but underneath the stairs to the entrance to the basement apartment. She knocked, and Peter recognized the pattern as Morse code.

 _dot dot dot dot dot dash dot dot dash dot dot dot_

“ ‘Suit’ – cute, Mozzie. Very cute.” Peter muttered.

There was a responding set of taps. Peter saw Diana roll her eyes and repeat her pattern. The door opened, and a bespectacled eye peered out of the crack.

“Did you have to bring the ENTIRE division with you, Lady Suit?”

Peter half-stumbled in front of Diana, pushed the door open and grabbed Mozzie into a bear hug, kissing the top of his bald pate. “Thank you, thank you for finding him.”

Moz fought free of Peter’s hold brushed himself off, as if he were now coated in Suit germs.

Peter didn’t notice Moz, or see how the building – so ordinary on the outside – had been carved out into a vast, tiered cavern. He only had eyes for the big dog asleep on a blanket on the floor. He wanted to run to Neal, but he forced himself to walk, and he didn’t know why. He wasn’t going to spook him, but he was sleeping and ill. Peter tried to ignore the makeshift diaper wrapped around Neal’s hindquarters and the smell of ammonia cleaner.

He got down on his knees next to Neal, almost afraid to touch him, afraid to wake him. The memories of the two of them running through a sun-dappled forest, exchanging lines of poetry to keep themselves sane, the scent of decaying pine and maple and the ever-present hum of summer insects overlaid the present and he brushed a shaking hand along Neal’s jaw.

Neal opened one pale blue eye, then the other. He wagged his tale weakly and tried to roll over and get up, but he couldn’t. The best he could manage was … nothing. He heaved and pushed and didn’t have the strength. Peter hadn’t believed, hadn’t wanted to believe Diana when she told him how injured Neal was, but he couldn’t deny the evidence before him.

Moz and El helped Neal roll over, onto his belly. Peter’s hand hovered over his head – it didn’t feel right to pet him like a dog. This was _Neal_ , regardless of the body that housed his soul.

Neal lifted one heavy paw and placed it onto Peter’s thigh, flexing his claws.

Peter swallowed against the tears. This was Neal whether he was the goofy, doggy beast he had traveled with those last two days, or _Neal_ , sharp-brained and vital. He was _dying_.

And Peter didn’t have the slightest idea how to turn him back into a man.

 

 _PETER, PETER, **PETER!**_ NEAL SHOUTED WITH ALL HIS STRENGTH, BUT THERE WAS NO RESPONSE. He just kept looking at him, with those grave, sad eyes.

 _I’m here, Peter. It’s me! Talk to me – tell me you hear me. Please._ But it was like banging against a brick wall, and the more he pushed, the worse he felt. His heart pounded in a rapid, irregular rhythm and it was difficult to breathe, but Neal managed a small, vocal whimper before dropping his head on his paws in exhaustion.

Peter’s hand hovered over Neal, and he brushed his fingertips over his friend’s ears before standing up.

“Mozzie, we need to take Neal home.”

The little man had tears in his eyes. “No. He’s my friend too. He’s comfortable here. This is his home now. Why can’t you leave him be?” Moz ended on a shout of pain and frustration.

El went to him, to soothe him, but he brushed her hand away.

“Since the beginning, you were always taking him away from me. He was never in any danger until you came along. You and your deal. He would have been safe if it wasn’t for you. You did this to him.” Moz knew he was being unreasonable, but his fear and grief were forcing the words out of him. He pulled his glasses off and scrubbed at his eyes. He turned to the three other agents. “Get out – you don’t belong here. Just go.”

Peter watched as Moz approached Diana, Jones and Hughes, fists clenched as if he was prepared to throw them out. Jones raised a hand, a placating gesture, but the tableau was broken when Neal whimpered.

 _Please, Moz – can’t you hear me? Can’t anyone hear me? I need to be with Peter – please, please don’t fight. I need you too, but I need to be with Peter. He’s … my pack, I need him._

Everyone in the room was looking at him, but no one heard him. Neal made the decision for everyone, dragging himself to rest, panting, at Peter’s feet.

Moz screwed up his face, unable to conceal his hurt but unwilling to display it. “I’ll get the gurney.”

They got Neal into the back of the SUV, covered with a warm blanket. Peter was about to climb into the back with him when he saw Moz standing there, alone, forlorn.

He put a hand on the back of the smaller man’s neck and hauled him close. “You’re coming with us. You need to be with Neal too. He needs you.” He pushed Mozzie into the vehicle and climbed in beside him. “You’re not going to be left behind. Not now, not ever.”


	20. WEDNESDAY EVENING THROUGH SUNDAY AFTERNOON

IT HAD BEEN THREE DAYS SINCE PETER WAS DISCHARGED FROM THE HOSPITAL.  Three days since he rushed to Mozzie’s to find Neal – still a dog – waiting for him.  Three days of waiting for Neal to become a man again.  Three days of watching as Neal faded away, listening as his breathing grew more and more labored – three days of agony and grief and helplessness.  For three days and as many nights, Peter refused to leave Neal’s side.  Elizabeth shared his vigil.  So did Moz.  Satchmo, too.  The Lab seemed to recognize who the strange dog was, and simply curled up next to him, giving all of the comfort he could.

Peter couldn’t understand why Neal hadn’t transformed back into a man – he didn’t know what had gone wrong.  “Why won’t he change?  What have I done?”  Peter asked these questions over and over again.  El had no answers.  Moz looked at him, eyes sorrowful behind the thick frames.

Neal was running out of time.  Peter didn’t know how Mozzie did it, but he convinced the canine cardiac specialist to pay a house call.  It was a fruitless effort, though.  All the tests the doctor ran simply confirmed that Neal’s heart was far too damaged by genetic cardiomyopathy and the trauma from the Taser for there to be any hope at all of long term survival.  Hell, or even living for another week. Both Moz and Peter almost came to blows with the vet when he recommended euthanizing Neal “for his own well-being.” 

How could Peter tell the man that Neal was not really a dog? Or at least, that this dying Irish wolfhound used to be a young, healthy human being, and there was no way he would put him down – that would be murder.

All day long, Peter sat on the floor next to Neal, waiting and watching, praying to a god he didn’t believe in, hoping for a miracle that wouldn’t come.  His hand rarely left his friend’s body – that contact was as essential to him as breathing.  The few times he had gotten up – to use the bathroom, to relieve a cramp in his legs – he felt the lack of attachment like a physical pain.

The irony of the situation would have been laughable if it wasn’t so damned tragic.  To have come all this way, to have suffered through everything they had been through, together and separately, only to come to this.  Whatever the key was that would turn Neal back into a man again, he was missing it.  Something in the back of his head said that the answer should have been obvious, but Peter just couldn’t figure it out.  Maybe because he didn’t have Neal to bounce ideas off of.  Again, how ironic.

Over and over again, he obsessively replayed his own homecoming – what he could remember of it.  He questioned El and Moz time after time, but there was nothing more that they could tell him, no clues for him to follow.  Since the moment of his original transformation, he had known, with bone-deep certainty, that coming home to Elizabeth would turn him back into a man.  Neal never shared that belief – he just trusted that following Peter home would do the same. 

The more Peter thought about it, the more he blamed himself.  If he hadn’t let Neal hunt for him, if he hadn’t let Neal risk his humanity – if he hadn’t been so damned selfish – they would never have gotten separated, and surely the wave of magic that turned him back into a man would have caught Neal too, bringing him back.

Every moment was painful to watch.  He could see Neal slipping away, moment by moment.  But no matter how weak he was, Neal’s eyes never left him – even though the bright blue had faded to a weak, watery gray.  This was why Peter needed to be close.  Neal seemed to be trying to say something to him, and as hard as Peter tried, as quiet and as _open_ as he tried to leave himself, he couldn’t hear Neal – not even the faintest murmur.  He shouted and cajoled and begged and pleaded with Neal inside his own head – all one-sided conversations.  The communication they had shared in the forest was gone, as if it had never been. 

In the heart of the night, when Peter closed his eyes against the dark, when Elizabeth curled up next to him in a sleeping bag, her hand resting on his back, and Mozzie paced in the small garden, he wept.  His tears were bitter, his anger turned inward, at himself – for all the mistakes he made, for letting Neal go, for letting Neal try to save him.  That was _his_ responsibility, and no matter what, he should never, ever have forgotten that.

 

NEAL KNEW HE WAS DYING AND HE WAS GOING TO DIE TODAY.  He stopped wondering why he hadn’t changed back into a human being and just _relaxed_.  He was okay with what was happening, he could accept it now.  No more fear, no more pain, no more worry.  He was surrounded by the people he loved and he understood that they were trying their best to save him, like they always did.

It pleased him, viscerally, that Peter and Elizabeth were now so clearly friends with Mozzie.  His biggest fear was relieved – that Moz, who pretended that he didn’t need anyone, would end up all by himself.  Even if Peter didn’t actively seek his company afterwards, _after he died_ , Elizabeth would make sure that Moz was a frequent and welcome guest.

He had no real regrets anymore, at least not about the small stuff.  He had prepared for an eventuality that he never expected to happen, leaving instructions that would be delivered to Moz about his stash.  Moz would do the right thing and see that everything was properly disposed of.  Moz would talk to Alex, he’d let her know what happened.  The messy tangles of his life would all be smoothed out eventually.

Except for Peter.  He would take that sorrow to his grave.  The one true regret was that he never really talked to Peter about _them_ – what Peter meant to him, what he felt.  It was too complex for words.

In his zeal to make him a better person – a man and not someone who just lived for the thrill of the game – Peter became the father he should have had and the brother he always wanted.  And yet, there was something more – something that Neal had shied away from but now wished he could embrace and never let go.

Neal loved Peter, more than a father, more than a brother.  Maybe “more” wasn’t right – his love was not really filial, nor fraternal.  The truth, as he finally admitted to himself, was that he loved Peter as a man.  He wanted to be with Peter forever, and yet he knew how impossible that was, and not for the obvious reason.

He loved Elizabeth too, albeit not with the same overpowering intensity.  She brought him happiness, like an overflowing basket filled with rainbows and flowers and everything that was good with the world.  If Peter tried to mold him into a better man, Elizabeth made him a better one just by her kindness, her acceptance.  He thought that if he could have lived – even for just a little while longer – he would have been content to share a space at her feet with Satchmo.

Elizabeth would have been okay with Neal’s feelings, and now Neal could understand why.  Elizabeth knew, somehow, or maybe she had learned early on that love doesn’t have to be an exclusive emotion.  She was strong enough, centered enough to admit Neal into their lives, and he only wished he hadn’t been such a coward and seen the invitation she had given to him so many times.

In this last hour of his life, Neal realized finally why they were transformed – it wasn’t punishment, it wasn’t even a test.  It was a gift.  The mind-to-mind communication enabled by their change entailed more than words – it gave them the ability to truly feel each other.  But from the beginning, they both cut that off.  It was too intense, too painful.  It was just too much to bear, and in rejecting that gift, they lost something infinitely precious. 

And so, he would die today, incomplete.  He felt as sorry for himself as he did for Peter and Elizabeth.  He wished, oh how he wished, for one moment, one chance to tell them how much he loved them, how much they meant to him. No matter what would have happened in the rest of their lives, the three of them would always have had each other. 

Everything hurt now.  It hurt to breathe, and he had a hard time seeing.  He tried to keep his eyes on Peter, who anchored him to life by a fine, thin thread. Neal knew that that thread was strong, but it wasn’t going to be strong enough to heal him, to fix what was broken. 

He heard Elizabeth and Mozzie talking to Peter, but he couldn’t understand the words over the unsteady pounding of his heart.  They must have been important words, because Peter became agitated, he could feel that.  And he could see the tears flowing down Peter’s face.  This was not right – Peter was too strong, he shouldn’t cry.  He wanted to comfort him, to let him know that it was all right.  That he wasn’t alone. 

Neal tried to lick Peter’s hand, to give him a kiss.  But his mouth was too dry and Peter was too far away.  He could barely move when Elizabeth knelt down and kissed him, and he more sensed than felt Mozzie’s hand on his back. 

It was almost over.

Peter must have realized that too, because he bent over and started whispering to him, and then time stopped.

 

AT DAWN ON THE FOURTH DAY, PETER KNEW THAT NEAL WASN’T GOING TO LIVE TO SEE THE SUN SET.  His body was shutting down, his heart was failing and so was Peter’s hope.  He damned himself with every breath.  _If only, if only, if only…_

“Peter…”

He scrubbed at his face, too many days unshaven, his eyes crusted with sleep, with tears.

“What?”  He looked up at Elizabeth.  She had left their vigil – the deathwatch – to shower, to get them coffee, some food – food he couldn’t eat or even stand the sight of.  Peter supposed he reeked.  He hadn’t bathed since leaving the hospital; he couldn’t bear the thought of Neal dying without him there.  Moz was standing next to her, obsessively wiping his glasses, his own eyes bloodshot from the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. 

“You need to tell him.”

Maybe it was the exhaustion, but he didn’t understand.

“You need to tell him what you feel.  Even though he won’t understand you, you still need to tell him.  For your own sake, before it’s too late.”

Her words echoed his greatest fears.  “El?”

“Peter – I’ve watched the two of you for years. You don’t think I haven’t seen it?  What you feel for each other?  What you feel for Neal, what he means to you?”

He froze – everything in him shied away from what Elizabeth was saying, much as he had when he thought about Neal’s sacrifice in the forest.  _No – this wasn’t true.  She was wrong._   “No – no.”  _Please god, no._

Moz spoke up.  “Suit – stop denying what you know is true.”

Peter ignored Neal’s friend – _his friend, too_ – and spoke directly to his wife.  “El.  I love you.  I will always love you.”

“I know that.”  She laid a small, gentle hand on his head.  “This is okay. I understand, so much more than you think.  I always have.  You came home – to me.  You went through hell to do that, and I will never – I have never – doubted your love.  But the human heart is not a finite vessel: you don’t love someone and declare it full, that there’s no room for anyone else.”  She bit her lip, to stop the tears.

“You have to tell Neal – you have to tell him.  Please, if just for your own peace.  So you can remember, afterwards, that you did what was right.  Please, before it’s too late.”  Her fingers brushed his cheek, smearing the wetness of his tears.  She turned to look at Neal, lying on the rug, every breath an effort.  “Please, Peter, for both your sakes…be honest.”

El sat down next to him, she whispered something into Neal’s ear and kissed him.  _She was kissing him goodbye_.  Moz joined her.  Peter closed his eyes.  Despite everything, his supreme discomfort with this near-public confession, he knew that they were right.  And they deserved to be here too – Neal was so much a part of all their lives.

Neal’s breathing was labored, the wheezing harsh and painful to listen to.  Peter could feel the heat burning off his body.  He bent over him, pressing his cheek against Neal’s snout, and as weak as he was Neal had enough strength to flick out his tongue and give a lick against his cheek.  Peter shuddered at the contact.  He wished.  Oh, how he wished things were different.  Neal had sacrificed everything to save him, to get him home, and Peter was unable to do anything but watch him die.  Why had he waited so long?

Yes, as El said, there was one last thing he could do. He could honor Neal with the truth of his feelings.

Peter cupped his hands behind Neal's ears, stroking the rough fur, feeling the pulse race irregularly.  As Neal’s heart was failing, Peter’s heart was breaking, and he didn’t know how he was going to live when Neal died.  His eyes filled with tears again, and this time he made no effort to stop them.  They flowed down his cheeks, and he caught a harsh breath on the edge of an aching sob. 

“Neal – it may be way too late, and I should have told you years ago – I love you, I love you.  I love you.”  _Say a thing three times and it’s true._

Peter’s thumbs stroked the tops of Neal's ears, down and across his eyebrows, teasing the still comical tufts of fur.  “I don’t know where we could have gone with this, and I can’t imagine that you feel the same way.  And I have no clue if you can even understand what I’m saying, but I have to keep saying it.  I love you and I need you and my life without you will be very difficult.” 

He felt El’s hand stroke his back, a comforting gesture.  She whispered, “It’s all right, it’s all right.”

He leaned over and pressed a hard kiss between the furry brows.  A tear fell, and then another, slipping through the fur, soaking into Neal’s hot skin.  Peter’s eyes clouded with grief as he felt the pulse fading, breaking rhythm, stuttering, then speeding up.  He kissed Neal again, and rested his forehead against Neal’s bony brow and closed his eyes, whispering his love, wanting, needing to be as close as possible when that last moment came. 

And between one breath and the next, the magic came back.  The room filled with a heavy and unnatural silence, broken only by the sound of his heart beating and the feel of Neal’s pulse, racing and wavering, then slowing down, getting stronger, finding the same rhythm as his own heartbeat.  Peter couldn’t move, he could barely breathe, the connection between him and Neal was electric and unbreakable, they were locked together and he wondered if he was about to die, too.

  
He was afraid – afraid that this was an illusion born of his own desperate desires.

Neal opened his eyes.

“Peter … ”  

He thought he would never hear his name spoken like that again – the desperate cadence, like a curse, like a prayer.  He pressed his hand lightly against Neal’s chest, feeling his heart beat in a slow and regular rhythm.

His face was wet, the tears kept coming.  It didn’t matter.

Neal grabbed weakly at Peter – his arm, his shoulder – and pulled him closer; his lips were moving and he was whispering something.  Peter strained to hear his voice over the joyful pounding of his own heart.

He brought his ear to Neal’s moving lips and he heard the words he had never expected but so longed to hear.

“Peter, you weren’t too late. I love you, too.” 

 

IN THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED, A LOT OF HIS MEMORIES ABOUT THEIR WEEK IN THE WOODS BLURRED, the way memories should.  But Neal would carry the hour of his transformation – his rebirth – with him for the rest of his life.  Maybe it was because death had been so close at hand.  He would never forget the frightening feel of an erratic heartbeat, the need for air that he didn’t have the strength to breathe in, the shaming weakness of a body that could no longer function.  And most of all, the painful regret of a life unfulfilled, of the promise of love that would never be reciprocated.

And then, the release – from pain, from fear (because yes, he was frightened of dying, even if he was willing to accept it).  He didn’t understand why – maybe this was death, the cessation of everything except the mind.  But that couldn’t be right – he heard Peter’s heartbeat, strong, steady, strong enough to beat for both of them.  Then he heard Peter’s words, and even if he forgot his own name, forgot everything that he ever was, he could never forget those words.  _Neal – I love you, I love you.  I love you_.  Repeated three times, like a charm, a talisman.

He knew it wasn't just Peter's words, or even the kiss on his brow, it was Peter finally admitting to himself, without the burden of guilt or shame, that what lay between them was real, true and lasting.  That was the key.

As his eyes adjusted to light and color, he realized that he wasn’t alone with Peter.  Elizabeth was there, and if he’d had any doubts about her feelings, they evaporated at the sight of her sparkling eyes and wide smile, and the feel of her warm body as she wrapped her arms around him. 

Mozzie was there, too.  He should have realized that he wouldn’t leave his side – not now, not this time.  Neal reached out and Moz clasped his hand, a brief, weak squeeze of reassurance before letting go.  In that release, Neal understood what Moz was doing, but it was unnecessary – there could be no replacement for him. He had the time now, and they’d talk. 

 

MOZ BLINKED AND TRIED TO TELL HIMSELF THAT HIS RUNNING NOSE and watery eyes were just allergies, but he knew he shouldn’t lie to himself like this.  It didn’t matter that it was Peter’s kiss that saved Neal – all that mattered, all that should have mattered, was that Neal was alive and looked to stay that way for a long while. 

Or at least until the next time he got himself mixed up in some damn stupid government mess.

He pulled out his phone and made the call.  Hughes answered it before the first ring ended.

“It’s good news, Suit.”

“Neal’s back?”

“Yes.”  Moz looked at his watch and timed the call out of habit.

“How is he?”  That question was far more complex than just three words.

“He’s Neal.”  Those two words conveyed everything that the Old Gray Suit wasn’t asking.

There was silence on the other end, or maybe a prayer of thanks.  Moz watched the second hand and counted down the time for a trace. 

“I’m hanging up now, Suit.”

“Wait — tell Peter that I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Mozzie looked over at Neal, weak, filthy and diaper-clad, still wrapped in the Burkes’ arms, but his face aglow with happiness.  “You may want to meet them at the emergency room.”

“Okay. And, Havisham?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Mozzie hung up and resisted the urge to pull the SIM card.  The Suits knew who he was, and at least one of his safe houses.  Killing another cell phone wasn’t going to keep them out of his life.

The Burkes’ dog wandered over to him and dropped a toy at his feet and sat down, panting and wagging its tail – it was probably pleased that its humans were happy again.  He reached out and patted the animal.  And sniffed.  Nope, nothing – no adverse reactions.  The dog woofed at him, and he patted it again, this time with a scratch at its ears.  The beast nosed the toy – a slobber-coated thing made of who-knows-what that might once have been a teddy bear or a stuffed-sheep – and it brushed up against his feet.  Moz shuddered and thought about all of the nice disinfectant back at his safe house in Williamsburg. 

And then he sighed.  The shoes could always be replaced, and after twenty-four hours with an incontinent wolfhound, a little dog spit was meaningless.  He picked the toy up and gave it a shake.  It made a noise which seemed to please the yellow dog, because it grabbed the thing out of Mozzie’s hand and went over to its bed and started playing with it, snuffling and chewing and doing disgusting doggie things to it, thankfully leaving him alone.

He stood in the middle of the room, feeling foolish.  There really was no place for him here, now.  El was happy, Neal was human, Peter was … in love.  It was time for him to go.

He was halfway to the door when Neal called his name.  He didn’t stop, and he might have made it out to the street if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth.

“Mozzie, where do you think you’re going?”

He froze. That voice could command entire Roman legions.  He raised his chin, stiffened his spine and pretended for all it was worth.  “My work here is done.”

“No, it’s not.”  Peter spoke. 

“Look, the three of you are in the middle of your happily ever after.  This is where Shane gets to ride off into the sunset.”

“Mozzie, please.  Don’t go.”  That was Neal.  When he sounded that pathetic, it was hard to say no – but he had to be strong.

“Get yourself cleaned up – you’re probably full of exotic and deadly microbes.  I’ll be back tomorrow.  We do have all sorts of things to discuss.”

Neal nodded, blue eyes blazing out of his gaunt face.  Of all of them, Mozzie understood that this was almost too much for him to bear.

“Okay.  Tomorrow?  You’ll be back tomorrow – promise?”

He pulled off his glasses and wiped them, a compulsive tell that he could never seem to bring himself to break.  He went over to the tangle of humans on the floor, kissed El on the forehead and gave Peter and Neal a speaking look.  “Of course I will.”

He kept his head down and made it out the door and down to the street before the tears came.

They weren’t tears of sadness or of hurt, but nor were they tears of pure joy. 

 

AFTERWARDS, THERE WERE A MILLION PRACTICALITIES THAT THEY HAD TO DEAL WITH.  There was a long, difficult process to go through to “officially” return.  Questions would be asked, answers given, lies told and truths covered up.  But that was for another time.  All Neal cared about was that he was here, with Peter, with Elizabeth.  They were alive and safe.

Peter held onto him and Neal never wanted to leave his arms.  He tucked his head into the crook of Peter’s shoulder and lay there as Peter rocked him, whispering, “I’m here for you, I’m here.  Don’t worry, I’m here.” 

When Neal tried to wrap his arms around Peter, his hand clinging weakly at his back, Peter shifted and made it easier for Neal to hold onto to him.  El sat at his back, rubbing Neal’s bare skin and stroking Peter’s arm.  She too murmured that she was here and that everything would be all right. 

Neal tried not to think about later or tomorrow or even the next minute.  For the moment, it was just enough that he could lean into Peter’s body, bury his head against the other man’s neck and feel safe. 

That he could feel like he truly belonged somewhere.

That he was home.

_FIN_


End file.
